Psalm for a tow truck

She stood outside in her bathrobe
in the frigid early morning
and asked him, "Why are you doing this to me?"
as he, unperturbed, kept lifting her car
onto the back of his truck.

I couldn't hear his response.
Maybe he ignored her.
Probably he said something like,
"I'm just doing my job."
Disclaiming responsibility.
Her question makes it personal,
which it is,
but of course he prefers not to see things in that light.

Her husband was more accommodating.
He tried to calm his wife down.
He smiled to the night security guard
and the policeman
who came to make sure nothing untoward happened
to the guy who was just doing his job.

The husband smiled and laughed
and bid them good night.
Did I hear him thank them?
He's black.
They're white.

I was standing on the landing
when he came down from his apartment
carrying his wallet to pay the put-down fee.
"Legally they can't charge you more than 50 dollars," I told him,
trying to make sure people at least know their rights.
I had to repeat it twice before he understood me.
He had an accent that suggested English might not be his first language.
"They're charging me fifty dollars to get my car back," he said.
He hadn't put on his happy have-to-deal-with-authority face yet.

I've watched the towing guy park his truck
and then walk around with the night security guard,
car by car, checking each dashboard with a flashlight
until they find someone to pick off.
It's not nearly as passive a process as
"I'm just doing my job" is meant to suggest.

Tonight, I was wakened by the sound of the truck
bumping through our parking lot.
He already had one car chained to the back
and was driving around with his flashlight,
looking for another one.
He paused at the car next to mine.
Within ten minutes, he was back to get it.

I wonder sometimes if we could make a legal case
for the sound of that truck outside our apartments at 3:30 a.m.
being a disturbance of the peace.
That's the worst part of this—
feeling helpless to do anything to stop
what amounts to legally sanctioned extortion of poor people.

I know this is a trivial injustice
compared to all the atrocities in the world.
But this one's happening to my neighbors,
on my watch,
and I feel like I ought to be able to do or say something
other than composing bad free verse for my blog,
which is really just compensation
and a way to let off steam.

I want you to punish them, Lord,
which is so childish of me.
But of course you don't actually work that way,
which at times like now makes me angry.