After the afternoon rush and the passing of about a thousand customers, I sat outside on the bench for a quick breath and a long break. Sitting there, I heard my old companion’s voice on the left side of me ask me,” Tell me Pack, for real… how the hell are u doing this? Ur still sober!…still free!… still bloody alive after all I’ve hit u with… come on man, tell ur little secret!”. Without turning I said plainly, “kindness… tolerance, courtesy, politeness, patience… and a prayer that I beat u everytime I take a breath… now beat it!”… I turned to my left side just to see an empty spot on my bench…and an old lady curiously looking at me. “ did u say something?” She asked confusedly. “Yeah!” I said getting up… “can I hold the door for u?”….

Published by Pack Redfeather

I am a walking contradiction of traditions some say. An African American and Native American Muslim poet with a personal life history as violently turbulent as a Storm. A visionary from the bottom of life’s social barrel striving to share the hope found in the light of faith through sometimes dark but real poetry. I’m a former member of the Bloods street gang, former serial bank robber, and both federal/state prison convict. I live on my mother’s tribal reservation of the Leech Lake band of Ojibwe in Minnesota.

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