Trayvon, Redux

^{It is difficult/ to get the news from poems / yet men die miserably every day / for lack / of what is found there. / Hear me out / for I too am concerned / and every man/ who wants to die at peace in his bed / besides.}

                      ^{—William Carlos Williams, “Asphodel, that Greeny Flower”}

Move along, you don’t belong here.

This is what you’re thinking. Thinking

drives you nuts these days, all that

talk about rights and law abidance when

you can’t even walk your own neighborhood

in peace and quiet, get your black ass gone.

You’re thinking again. Then what?

Matlock’s on TV and here you are,

vigilant, weary, exposed to the elements

on a wet winter’s evening in Florida

when all’s not right but no one sees it.

Where are they – the law, the enforcers

blind as a bunch of lazy bats can be,

holsters dangling from coat hooks above their desks

as they jaw the news between donuts?

Hey! It tastes good, shoving your voice

down a throat thinking only of sweetness.

Go on, choke on that. Did you say something?

Are you thinking again? Stop!— and

get your ass gone, your blackness,

that casual little red riding hood

I’m just on my way home attitude

as if this street was his to walk on.

Do you hear me talking to you? Boy.

How dare he smile, jiggling his goodies

in that tiny shiny bag, his black paw crinkling it,

how dare he tinkle their laughter at you.

Here’s a fine basket of riddles:

If a mouth shoots off and no one’s around

to hear it, who can say which came first—

push or shove, bang or whimper?

Which is news fit to write home about?