Public Health Inspector
William Townsend, died 1968,
Black River, Jamaica

Townsend took a curve too fast
and died near the coast. Nobody heard
for hours. Every few minutes
I turned to the window and cursed him.
He won't come, I thought, the bastard won't.

The road from Magotty came up
a swath of banana trees battered by rain,
but the sick arrived anyway.
Glistening loudly, they filled the clinic.
We walked up and down to quiet their babies.

I was witless with anger.
Townsend had promised to come at noon
and take us away-we had such
important work to do. Americans!
Sister clicked her teeth at my arrogance.

At Townsend's funeral, his father
held up a shoe and cried, He walked
in the pathways of righteousness. I sat,
rod straight, on a folding chair
at the front of the church and didn't speak.

For isn't righteousness the brother
I never had? In Babylon,
years later, I listen for the sound
of Townsend's shoes. Playfully, he'll punch
my shoulder. I'll follow him anywhere.