NOT MY INDIAN

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Submitted Date 02/04/2020
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The skyline matches that kid's hairline at the park

The straggler on the bicycle, swerving in cricles

The mother mourns

Her kid got involved

But not by his own doing

The hood is its own silent killer

Bringing young lives into the deadly fray

A game of ball can get out of hand

Tribal chants come out

The whole situation erupts into something unmanageable

Hands fly, feet sail

Nobody can be a bystander

The matter gets settled with weapons

Like the Indians on their home court, home territory

The son is armed with an knife

Enough to cut a baby, but not to strike a nerve

Might as well have had a stick

Merge with the dust

As it settles and shots go off, let them rip

 

The crackhead on the block

And the hustlers operating on every corner, every curve

Take notice

Out of sight

9-11 is called

The ambulances paint the streets red too

They don't make it in time

Tick-tock, tock

 

Her sons now off the grid

The siren in her wailing unites a neighborhood

All eyes on them

All cameras installed

Her daughter now has to reconsider everything

 

The landlord drops the rent immediately

Knowing the hungry fearless have nothing to lose

But the youths don't run the streets as much

Every corner is vacated, the drugs head underground

The spirit, the soul and intimate stories follow

 

A microphone is jammed into the woman's face

Her face is speechless

The color from her voice dissapears

She doesn't want to be reminded

She wishes she could be dumb

She wishes she could say what she wanted to

What will her son's legacy be?

In ten, twenty, thirty years

An afterthought to everyone

A priority to no one

And only a statistic to the papers, local and national

 

Her son could've been somebody

The dad knows that too

The dad quits his fake job

To try and be responsible for his real one

 

The violence might stop for a while

The sun may go blue

Until the gangs and packs of wolves aren't tired anymore

Until they're hungry again

 

A new block might be named, and a school might be built in his honor

More kids might be saved by the effort

Larry playing with his saxaphone off 116th will make a donation

Give back to his community, returns to his spot

Plays a different chorus, tries out some new stuff that he's got

 

A witness to tragedy once again

Even Larry realized the true cost of fame

 

The mother and father try to make amends

Knowing

Their son is the beginning

Of a new kind of brain drain

 

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