DA KNOWN POETS
They call us
The leggers.
Shimmer.
Jacks.
Lovers.
Creative writers.
Yes we follow.
Doubt strikes.
Potential arises.
Men molest.
Women do to.
They speak.
We speak.
Legs crossed.
Blood dripping.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Where does it come from?
The wavering sound of the calling birds.
They ask us to let them be.
“LET US FREE”
They scream.
Who are these birds?
We are the birds.
The men who walk amongst
The roots of this earth.
They are the Jews, the Blacks, the whites,
Asians, Hispanics.
The people of our time.
I’m dressed to kill, so are they.
Clock ticks.
Almost over.
She sits behind me.
Her chair rattles
As if playing the theme song
Of
Godfather.
I look behind me.
A person I see.
Yes, a person.
This makes no sense.
Why do I speak of this?
Oh, they will be mad.
Damn it.
Times up.
I’ve lost it all.
What do they call them?
I’ve forgotten.
I’m trying not to cuss.
Damn it.
I don’t know.
I remember.
They’re part of me.
How could I forget!
DA KNOWN POETS.
That’s who they are.
Once more.
I say again:
We follow.
Doubt strikes.
Potential arises.
Men molest.
Women do to.
Just listen.
Hear them.
They scream.
They say, this time with silent whispers,
“Let us free”
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