A Hand in a Pocket
That hand. Calm, relaxed. Tucked away, incapable of forming a lightening fast, defensive fist, as if one were needed. It matches the face - serene, untroubled, righteous. Nothing to see here, it says. Why are you even here? it says. Everything is OK, normal. Power, control and might are mine.
Of course, we know what the knee is doing. What it will do in nine minutes and 29 seconds. I can’t focus on that or the fading cries for help as a life drains away. No, I’m drawn again and again to that hand in the pocket. A gesture of indifference, disregard, disrespect. A gesture that says he can control this man, kill this man, with one hand in his pocket.
It will stay with me forever.