Monday After The Trial

In Memory of Antwon

I want flags to bow their heads and hunch their shoulders way down to half-mast. But they are all flying high with bright red and blue dye jobs.

I want instruments to congregate in the halls for a chorus of sorrow -bagpipes bumping into brass, percussions stomping on tambourine toes. But the only voices are shocked hushes from people who know.

I want black fabrics, too slippery silks, well-behaved cottons and itchy wools to run a 15K through the streets flowing past cars that find themselves stopped K-turning around to go the other way. I want lace to walk sipping from a water bottle that says the race is not given…But not even a marathon of more accurate white could stop all the cars from moving on with their Mondays.

I want umbrellas to hold hands and arch their faces against rain that pours in unison with tears. But the umbrellas just dance around each other darting through drops that only fall when rain shakes her head. I ask myself if rain knows?

I want busses to boast of prayers and strength in bright orange or white lettering across their foreheads. But they are all wearing baseball caps of numbers and locations – no special headdress for the P3 today. One bus enters East Pittsburgh like a child running through a library knowing nothing of somber observance.

I want a day long mourning of justice. But it is as if even she does not realize she has died or refuses to go. Her children stand at her bedside wailing refusing to rest. But we have no idea how to order her affairs.

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