by
Alfred W. Tatum
outside the black gate
where I once roamed
is the image that haunts me
an image that I hate
the green grass absorbs the death of a 30-year-old
the dirt becomes soiled again with blood dripping from his chest
my two-year-old nephew
asks about the sleeping man
he lays on the ground to imitate the corpse
surrounded by the police tape
I am struck by his innocent depiction of death
he remains motionless
before the cop yells to get him out of the crime scene
He weeps when hearing the thunderous voice
I weep too for my nephew and the thirty-year-old
connected for that brief moment by their poses
One breathing, the other breathless
I grab my nephew’s hand and walk him away from death
hoping the image quickly fades away
the image that continues to haunt me
clogging my…
everything
the devil didn’t even anticipate this
He’s ready to retire
before the summer starts
His most profitable season
