On the day of the trial Black America lost, again

I’m ready for mimosas. I’m ready for your phalanges touching
dents in my lower back. I’m ready for wartimes, baby. The kind
where men stumble, drunk with moonshine & memories
that could cut glass if they had enough guts to be knives. I’m ready
to show you my most tongue-dampening salsa dance. Lets tumble
in the kitchen while Spotify shuffles tonight. Let’s drown our tragedy
in bottles cheap & silly with headache-inducing relief– let’s do this till
the next shooting; or winter; or lung-bursting disease that
raptures the world then grows feet & runs. Let’s be kids,
getting jiggy with it in the moonlight while the moon’s still visible
& the cop regime hasn’t burst through. Let’s hope when they knock
down the doors we’re already killing it with our moves.
The carcasses left behind will have the most soulful grooves.