Away From the Place

I want to cross the street
quickly
to get away from the place.

There is a park across the street,
a sycamore. Soft grass.
I am cramping

There are protestors between us
locked in a row, vying to cast the first stone:
murderer.

I pass them it is going through a wall

and at the park
beneath the sycamore

a man plays a guitar
a small girl sits grinning

when she sees me she leaps up
runs to me
hugs me tight

I don't know her, but I am bless-ed be.

Our eyes meet; I hear her clearly:
listen not to them, but me.