In a small cottage in a deep valley, an old woman lived with her goats and sheep, chickens and dog, a sway-backed horse and one ginger cat.
Each morning, she collected eggs while the dog led the
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I hear blood
families crying over a loved one’s
slain body in the street
The sirens are distant
but close enough to see
the strobing red, intimidating blue
I hear recognition
the colors wane as They realize
that They’re rounding into
the Negro neighborhood
I hear tomorrow’s headline
“Black on Black Violence
(so why riot about police brutality?)”
but that’s only if this life
is deemed newsworthy
I hear acceptance
feet shuffle from the scene
though I have some life left in me