Rock art by Tim Christensen
The Watchman
He's in that mode to feel a rush, pulls
over, climbs a totem pole, reachesthe carved Watchman at the top. Calls
me on his cell. His old cub scout knifefinds its way out, scratches bold initials.
Better yet, he slices a wood chip souvenir.He drives recklessly from the sacred
grounds, gets pulled over for trespassing.The ticket turns to a court hearing
then an overnight jail stay—the judgehas an urgent matter. He's nearly
assaulted by a jail mate who sayshis family knows a family with ancestors
honored by that pole, and I wonderwhy he felt compelled, why he called,
as if the wrong can't keep pace, as ifkarma doesn't watch, and in his doubt,
he asks to see my cell phone, who I called.
