They come with walls of armor
And arms, oh, the arms
Ever prepared to do the riot thing
Will their fear be matched
By the fire in the bellies
Of protesters
Waving conflagrations
Or hands bound
Staring down such a dear accost
As inevitably meet
Each hankering in their own weigh
For just another
Setting at the table
Inescapably found
In the porous of communities
When poach talk
Left behind
In an escaping domesticity
Beyond bred and whine
And parting shots
Dis tending question
What sup?
This one goes out to all of those in Ferguson, Missouri, dealing with the aftermath of the murder of Michael Brown by a police officer — yet another young black male killed without justification by a white police officer in america. Michael Brown is dead and racism is alive and well in america. Much of white america is apparently puzzled by the outrage, focusing on how they can protect themselves from the rage of their victims. The cries for security, meaning white security, overshadow the cries for justice.
This poem reflects on the militarization of law and order, which is more consistent with the crime committed by a law enforcement officer than protecting and serving the community where that crime was committed. You just have to look at who is dressing for a riot. Hint: it's not the masses of peaceful demonstrators.
The main images used in this poem center around the home as the foundation of community. The porch and the dining rooms where lives are shared and bread is broken is a glue that holds together community. Still, when it is not safe to walk the streets, porch talk and a good meal are not enough. There is a time to take to the streets and reclaim one's community. The good people of Ferguson and America deserve an answer to the question, “What sup?”
