i

Behind a fence grilled in gang insignia,

a ball slows to its final bounce.

 

The sound of feet tripping

down an alleyway.

 

Beer cans cocked up against the curb

dripping slum & water, blurring the night

 

into nightmare. A chalk drawing

of a face sits unfinished

 

in the middle of the street: its eyes

rubbed the wrong way, its mouth

 

stamped shut.

 

ii

On a main street in Little Italy,

two black boys on their way home

 

from a party. The city air

dry with humor.

 

Couples stumbling out of speakeasies

with cocktail umbrellas in their hands,

 

waving giddily at the two black boys

now stunned by the glare of a squad car spotlight.

 

The metastasized story of a robbery

sits unfinished for anyone to claim:

 

it happened yesterday,

or two weeks ago

 

or it never happened at all.

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