What’s happening to you, my dearest? Tell me
why your streets are lately full of blood. Yesterday afternoon
rain washed it away from a sidewalk and into a sewer.
Many once alive are now corpses with eyes like dead fish.
We know that you’re no stranger to terror.
You’ve learned a long time ago to live with farewells.
I’m smitten by you in spite of your toxic aura.
Don’t tell me that’s just the way it goes around here.
I want optimism about your tomorrow. Others said to leave.
I did but came back with more fever. It’s not enough
to honor those asleep with lighted candles, vigils, and goodbye songs.
Your hands are tied, I know. But I call it bull!
May your halls be filled with protesters
and picket signs that say, ‘NO MORE! NO MORE!’
Don’t tell me it’s safe to release convicts with rap sheets
stretching from sea to sea. You’ve become a joke, soft like butter,
and too woke. No love without justice. The innocent takes a
number in the waiting line for their own death certificates
while you give them cake to eat and elevator music.
Reporters stand on your street corners pressing forward microphones
next to podiums for words going to the wind.
We’ve seen you sober before. We’ve seen the sun clearing up
your alley ways, and we’ve witnessed roaches and rats
scurrying with nowhere to hide. You know how to stop the munching
at the heels. We’ve seen you wash yourself with scented soap
reaching to the invincible recesses. We’ve seen you
organize to overpower pimps. If they refuse to let you go,
let us know. We won’t take it anymore.
