Ferguson

Carefully divvied
Up on my figure.
Spread like frosted pastries
Dispersed evenly
Meticulously
The shards of the vodka bottle
Teases me
With the cold alcohol.
Bashed against the base
Of the stuck in traffic
Swat van

“Rest in peace Michael Brown
Every cop in the ground”

I shuddered when the rock broke
Through the window
Of the shop
Where he bought
His own
Ferrari
Something old
Withering away in the garage
That he always seems
To prioritize over people

He would have killed for that car
6 shots, unloaded clip killed.

I smoked in line,
Holding the banner
Cigarillos
Almost sweet enough
To have been stolen

I see the ignition
The catalyst in his
Black pocket
And the town in burning
And my eyes
Are burning

But if this country was built
Upon the backs of my
Lashed forefathers

That same ignition
Would be at the edge of his gun
Blazing through
The fire in me.

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