Stone Statues Breathe

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Half black – half white

his Papa told him so,
his Mama left him long
ago.

Locked between two
bedroom cells, when he
took Juicy Fruit from
some store shelf, then
his Papa tossed the key
away. . .

He carried a gun
tucked inside his jeans
and a jack knife on the
only key he carried near
his heart.

He never thought about
segregation, laughed
about it – since his Papa
was stone white.

They moved away from
where he was born – and
believed his Papa was
some big wig in the Army,
saw him shake the hand of
a President.

But Papa he left too, and he
never saw his uniform – it
vanished like him –

His boy never understood how
friends could take and gun
him down?

He was buried with all the
glory of gun shots, flags,
and uniforms –  up on a hill
near the Potomac where far
too many white crosses line
perfect paths to perfect
stones.

Now he sits and thinks about
the color of his Mama’s skin
which robbed him of his youth.
His Papa gone – his Mama
no where to be found –

He lives in a one room shack
kind of like his Mama did
when she gave birth –
it’s said he fought from the
inside about the war – about
the black and white – about
all those killed and laid out
on some hill near a big city

murdered by some
stranger. . .

He took in a deep breath
and killed again – dreaming he
too was buried on the mountain
near a river where stone
statues breathe.

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