Watching

Tonight,
gazing at the stars,
the cold breeze in my face,
singing a hollow song
of fear,
I scream
for someone to hear
what I have always known –
Something is wrong.
It is there,
at the back door,
men with knives
and black masks,
coming in to cut your throats.
You tell me there is nothing there.
You tell me to eat my jelly sandwich
without the peanut butter
and be quiet.
You tell me to look away.
There are no men.
I am being silly.
I am causing trouble.
Why can’t I just sit and relax and watch t.v.
like the rest of you?
Yes.
That would be nice.
But
when the men come and slash your throats,
they will make me watch.
I will hear your cries.
And see your blood run
red.
And you will be gone.
But I will be left behind
to watch.
I am still watching.

N The Hood

I am in the ghetto now,
looking out the window at the Hackberry trees
instead of my dogwoods.
Here, the occasional cardinal or squirrel that drifts into our yard
is a blessing,
an abnormality,
an odd-man out in a concrete world.
But I am not complaining.
I am happy to be out of West Meade
and the cloying neighborhood children
with their overpriced scooters and water guns.
Men driving Porsches trying to hold on to their youth,
and women getting lifted in places their husbands rarely see.
This world feels real.
Alive.
Cats run free
in search of birds,
or mice,
or anything they can find.
Dogs bark,
left out in the cold
to fend for themselves,
and the bass of the Bloods
drives past my street
on Saturday night.
Yes,
some good writing will come
out of here.