BACK ALLEY 15

american reflex

sun in their skin like fool's gold. it is second brightest to the

bullets in their backs, though

i have seen their lives leave in broken breaths & broken pleas, too.

the show hosts, the opinion writers, & the old man next door,

armed with microscopes,

toss the corpse back and forth amongst each other & call out values.

this nigger had a gun --

he was twelve --

it was a toy one --

but ​ladies and gentlemen of the jury, i feared for my life. ​

a baby brother --

young enough to be afraid of the dark --

pretending to shoot bad guys during playtime in the park.

he looked suspicious. it's not my fault. he looked like a criminal ​with his bright smile and

round cheeks and

up-to-no-good​ (skin). ah yes, says the jury. he did look suspicious.

the show hosts, the opinion writers, and the old man next door

smile.

us negroes can taste the verdict before

it ever leaves their lips. i think them white men only traded in their whips

because they knew their tongues can lash deeper & in secret:

blood is blood, but promises spit in the flashbulbs

glitter like fool's gold