Some come to the church in a van, most drive. Couples lean on each other,
gray-haired women ease arthritic knees onto the nearest chairs.

The young instructor needs no microphone. He tells sixty-six old people to practice in pairs.
Go for the throat. Palm open, fingers spread, shout as you hit, protect your face.
Practice this a thousand times.

Even a small hand is large when stretched from thumb to index finger.
A cane is a stick. A walker is a weapon. Even old women can surprise a sociopath. Strike first.

You who are as sheep in the field must become fierce dogs against the wolves. Be ready.
Hit the side of his neck. If you miss whack the ear. Practice running away.

Outside a red maple burns, oak leaves fly against the windows.
Soon we will all go home to pray for Jane whose throat was slit, for Monika
who was strangled, for the policeman who would give his life
for yours, for those who would as soon grind your grandmother as eat a burger.

(c) Linda Caldwell Lee, 2006. All rights reserved.