Hands Poem by Gert Strydom

(in answer to Robin Camhee)

In town I greet some friends,
shaking their hands
before we start chatting,
some others drive by waving at us,

A rather beautiful lady
taps me on the shoulder,
to draw my attention,
asking me the time

while her blue eyes
make deep contact with mine,
her hand barely touches mine,
by accident or is it something else that is happening?

On the way home
there's a South African police services roadblock
across the road in colliery road in Springs
and I answer a call on my cellular phone,

cutting the connection as it's a wrong number,
one of the constables
shouts at his captain
that I have taken a photograph of him

and a group of blue arrogance
closes in around me,
with hands locking around my wrists,
hands going to the back
of my pants, going into my pockets,
holding onto my belt

with hands forcefully removing
my cellular phone,
with hands breaking into the privacy
of my life, breaking into my cellular phone
searching, searching for a photograph

and finding nothing,
with hands on my arms,
holding me from both sides
with faces pressed into mine,
with words from lips insulting,
threatening with assault,
it's a force majeure that tempts me for action

and at long last the white first lieutenant
(if police insignia is similar to that of the military)
who harassed me more than any of the others
tell me to be off, using the type of language
that some people that hate animals
uses on a dog

with his hands still threatening,
which at times are waving above his head
and I wonder why he is so very rude,
why he is trying so very hard
to impress his black colleges
and he walks some steps along with me
with his hands and words still threatening.

[Reference: Artist on the Wall by Robin Camhee.]