Boston, April 5th, 1968
Cities Nation-wide shook when the King fell
and fires engulfed the eyes of those who thought
beside him. But in Boston King James quelled
the chaos, and swelled the soul; funk overwrought
the shattered masses but that Friday night
the Godfather took control of the air,
he rose up on frenzied heels shining bright
and when he spun the whole earth turned to meet him there,
no matter the arc. While other cities
burned, Brown bloomed sound in Beantown
and kept kicking out the sparks.

Kolkata dogs with their single mixed blood
lay passed out on sidewalks of midday heat.
Bitch's tits sag dusting tired milk in mud
while sires long to coax some scraps from the street.
They bathe in showers dusty, dry and stale,
and scratch in mindless strokes their flea ridden skin,
leaving gold coats splotchy, raw and pale,
their flesh thin and loose where meat should have been.

A litter sifts some litter under cars
as the sun fades in the afternoon haze.
They will sleep beneath a blanket of no stars,
hunger, not light, will wake them to the day.
And in the morning few will have survived,
left to be mourned by those barely alive.

This poem originally published in Eckerd Review