—I CAN’T BREATHE

What Time Is It?

     after Dave Chappelle, “8:46”

The streets

speak for

themselves,

screaming for

the slain

and voiceless,

crimson stains

woven into the

cement whorls

of sidewalks,

each gory flourish

a defenseless

life lost--

son

 daughter

   father

     brother

        lover--

each spackled

s   t   r   e   t   c   h

of pavement

another urban

headstone

with no

headlines,

trod on

as some throngs

make their

way to work or

to a Thai place,

others now impeding

such progress

and nonsense,

forcing the

crowd to

pause

notice

and listen as they

try to claim

a new magistrate

for those who

never had one