The smell of gas, the crunch of glass,
the eeriness of the blue beams slicing
through the thickness of the star-less night
air in 360 degree fashion silhouetting
faces aged profoundly in this recent lapse
of grief stricken three hours and twenty minutes.

A fading ink-blot of crimson surrounds
the fat child-like strokes of the chalked
outline which encompasses an area
larger than that of its inspiration

—the child whom the uniforms now refer to as “victim”—

was shoveled away in a black PVC bag
like the dirty laundry of a college student
headed home for the holiday weekend.

On the far side of the street sits the weapon,
an olive green ’71 Mustang with a white
canvas top and a white off-centered racing
stripe blazed across its hood, the driver’s door
still ajar—the windshield resembling a spider’s web.
It’s owner (not the driver) sitting quietly on the street
beside it; mascara running down her pallid cheeks,
reminiscent of a clown’s sultry face.

Her son is gone.

She looks up and meets the eyes
of the other woman sitting across the street
bouncing the red rubber kick-ball
that innocently caused it all—

12/01/2004

Posted on 01/10/2005
Copyright © 2025 S. Pelham Flood