Time? I don't have any. So, another poem from Turn Left At the Dead Dog. It's based on the 1992 murder of a beloved Brooklyn principal, Patrick Daly, who got shot in crossfire in Red Hook.
This, she told me
pointing with an acrylic
nail
her lucky charms colliding
like teenagers in love
is where that teacher died.
Some hoodlums shooting at
each other.
You know, sometimes I think
I seen them
coming out of the projects
They’re the ones laughing
cause they never get caught.
But God knows
God always knows.
Rest that poor man’s soul.
Annie’s wand swipes the
humid air
and makes those hoodlums
their bullets the projects
and that early autumn day
disappear for
that poor man, rushing back
to school
with treats to surprise his
kids when
the crimson buzz of a
lonesome mosquito
bit him like it was personal
and he went down.
Look.
Go away she means.
I wish --
oh I know it’s a sin, a
mortal sin --
but, I wish that their
mothers had gotten rid of them
the minute their red-headed
aunt didn’t come.
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