Quart d'Heure

 by Brett Rutherford

Well, that was a “carder,”
the Englishman said,
after his rude encounter
with a pack of dogs.

How quaint to call trauma
un mauvais quart d'heure,
a bad quarter-hour,

quart d’heure
just long enough
for the bullies to pull
your books, your coat,
backpack, umbrella,
and send them flying
over a high fence

quart d’heure
just time enough
for a rapist to do
what he wants to you,
zip up, and flee
the scene

quart d’heure
ill quadrant
of the clock of doom,
the time it takes
to bleed out,
pass out, expire

quart d’heure,
nine hundred
and thirty seconds,
to be precise,
the stone-cold interval
of falling out of love.