and magazines
in a metal shack
on a manhattan street.
he comes by,
raising his gun,
saying something
i can't hear.
i can't hear
anything
in good dreams,
bad dreams,
day dreams,
night dreams.
he asks.
no.
he shouts?
threatens?
he wants it.
i pull
on his gun.
i speak.
no.
i whisper?
i cry?
i smile.
i lead
the tiny canon
to my temple.
then i pray.
or i don't.
i wish i did.
his curses
harsh
loud.
he is anger.
he is fear.
he is black.
i shout
a command,
again.
again.
again
he shoots.
my temple?
in my mouth?
my heart.
blood.
a mess.
what a mess.
i'm sorry
to you (mother)
to you (father)
to you (dear God)
to you (poor child,
you saw too much)
to you (stranger,
you can run so fast).
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