In the mornings, he wakes And the sun trickles through stained windows Like snowflakes Tight curls fly around His face, skin Sun-weathered Like brown leather, And his eyes Crinkle when he smiles At his young son Who he can barely keep alive
In the mornings, he stands Outside the crumbling apartment And raises his hand To his boy, who rides away In a city bus And his shoulders slump- Unmoored and in a suit he can’t afford
He walks quickly with his Head down in the busy streets And the rain falls in heavy sheets, And a borrowed briefcase Is held in a desperate play To keep the dark water at bay People with faces like snow Stare at him And pull their children From “that dangerous man with the unkempt afro”
His sixth interview in a week, And he brushes his hair In the dingy bathroom of a 7/11 across the street
A smile is painted and he Scratches desperation From tired eyes and at 12:47 on the dot He ambles into a parking lot, Where yellow lines Run like stripes On the basketball he bounced as a child
He rubs his weary face (Skin like brown leather) And exhales An attempt to keep his life together And he crosses the threshold Past the guard, Doesn’t miss the look he gets, And he reaches into The folds of his suit To pull out a handkerchief- And then he’s on the ground, A bullet in his hip.
