The closest my father came to hitting a man
was the day my boyhood friend, Carter,
dumped a bucket of ants onto my head.

He'd been watching from the window,
his hands gripping mother's sea-green sofa.
He was a soft man, but on that day I know
he was staring at the driveway with the eyes of a soldier.
Maybe he saw it coming.
I didn't; I was only six.

Carter's father was watching too.
He was a hard man, a carpenter,
and he'd never spoken to me.
He liked to smoke cigarettes,
and sit in his leather easy-chair.
I wouldn't even touch it;
whenever Carter tried to push me into it
I'd squeal and run home.

The carpenter and the businessman
glared from behind their windows;
two men watching two boys.
Both men eyed the bucket of ants.
I think they hated each other,
though they'd never spoken.

When the ants came tumbling down
I writhed and screamed.
I was certain I'd be eaten alive.
My father was out the door before
I called his name; Carter's father
met mine in the driveway
our families shared.

My father ordered me into the house.
The carpenter ordered his son to stay.
I ran to our front windows, and gripping the couch,
I watched my father start a fight.
I was so ashamed;
I was so proud.
But mostly I was afraid;
he was so soft.

It was over before the last ant
crawled off of me and under the sofa.
I hadn't heard a word; the window panes were too thick.
Yet it took only one look
at my father's face
to know he'd avoided blows,
but lost the argument.
I was relieved;
I was mortified.