Body Counts


Body Counts


Three black students, faces streaked
with wet, come to my class late. I order
pizzas and we forget about research
writing tonight.


The student and faculty
line-up stretches from 27th
to 28th. I over-think joining
them – a white man with
a #BlackLivesMatter
sign. What will that
mean and to whom?


Overheard on 6th Ave.:
“The corner bodega sees
no issue with selling loose
singles from six-packs on the
sly. The owners don’t usually get
choked-out over it, though.”


My police commissioner friend
orders an “emergency street
cleaning” after learning of a potential
“die-in” on the streets of Queens.
Hundreds shiver on a bed
of blacktop and ice.


We lie in your bed in Harlem. No use
trying the subway back to Brooklyn. The bridges
are closed – jammed with the sad and angry.
So we make love, trying to hold on to
something – twisting like
everyone else under the cat’s paw.


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