For Trayvon
After the Verdict
July 14, 2013
In the end they stole you,
every last one of
them,
the martyr builders
and the bastards
alike.
They poured you out
like water from
a swamped boot
and replaced you
with the merchandise
of their own
longings,
fears,
and projections.
A handy flagstaff from which to hang
their ideologies
snapping in the gale
that they created.
But you were just a goofy,
kind of sweet kid
just trying to get
along
no angel, no thug.
You took the time to make a friend
of the big girl with
the
funny accent
everyone else mocked,
And you also toked some weed—
what a shock!
mugged like a rapper
on your cell phone,
and
brushed up
a time or
two
against
John Law.
You played football and video games,
danced, laughed
and flashed that
little grin.
If truth be known,
you probably got
beyond
third base with that
pretty
little girl friend.
So what ?
It doesn’t matter now.
It all ended with a
tussle
and a pop on dark night.
Then you were stretched out
flat on your back
surprise frozen on
your face—
an empty
sack of meat.
Now you belong to them.
You have no say.
Those who loved you,
hated
your existence
on the planet,
and all of the users.
Maybe better you should have been
capped on the South
Side
of Chicago on a busy
weekend
where all you would
get
would be a two minute
stand-up
under a street lamp
on Channel 5,
a
quick shot of your wailing mom,
the
posturing of a local preacher.
Then they would put you in the ground
still owning your own
corpse.
—Patrick Murfin
Sad but true.
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