Bitter Crop
by Takya 'Tokyo' Stuckey
Gloom pouring over
Homes we imagined
Were homes.
Here's air filled with Error.
Where we stood playing
Blackjacks,
Now memorial sites.
Alleyways where we caught
Boys and kissed them;
Double-dutched and
Hop scotched, now morgue.
Walking out of backdoors,
Watching television
Is scary.
Murder by the strays without names.
Walking out of front doors
Is suicide.
Black bodies
Don't swing no more
Just lay.