by John Grey

This stoop is the site of a murder,
a kid shot in a drive-by.
The body’s long been hauled away of course
and the stains scrubbed clean.
Cops have got other business to attend to
and the nosy move on
when there’s nothing more to see.
There’s nobody here but me.
No traffic, no noise.
Even the sidewalks are clear.
I’m sitting exactly where the victim sat.
I could step out into the street,
claim the killer’s momentary turf.
Another gang slaying so the paper said.
Except the kid that took the bullet
was mistaken for someone else.
He was fifteen, an honor student.
Whatever he learned
the day of his death,
it sure wasn’t honor.
This stoop is like every other stoop
on this block.
The buildings are tenements,
all drawn from the same cut-rate architect’s plans.
Big families squeeze together in small apartments.
They lose a son, a brother.
That makes for more room,
and yet they squeeze even tighter.

Photo by Liana S on Unsplash