FOR MY UNBORN SON

by Donald Vincent


When I die, I hope heaven isn’t hell.
                We’re treated like second citizens,
it ain’t hard to see or tell. Don’t make sense
we can’t enjoy Skittles and other goodies.
It’s our fault, the love for black Jordans
and black Hoodies. Stole a life, this skin color
is a curse. Sybrina can’t stop crying,
tears falling, drowning in sorrows. Should I

                lie in a river and simply wade on?
No black and white issue, too many shades
of grey are gone. There’s no difference
between an Emmett Till, Sean Bell,
and Trayvon. Concealed objects:
a wallet, ID card, nothing but lint

                in pockets. Not a cent.
Red and blue sirens, white
cops, dark body. Shots fired,
someone drops. The remark
is self-defense, He was high off PCP.
Do they inject their bullets with PCP?
Think about it— no need to lie,
                alacrity is their alibi.

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