Get Out and Keep Running

Three-hundred twenty men and women
were celebrating themselves,
celebrating how the day gives to day
and gives an opportunity to dance
and touch and love themselves in open space,

three-hundred twenty men and women
were free,
when misery in its familiar form of
a man with a gun in each hand
stepped inside,
looked left and right,
and decided to add new beats
to the music, blaring

the steady mechanical bang coming from his fingertips,
the cries of boys and girls aware of impending fate,
the clashes and clicks and clatters of heel and sole on soaked concrete–

the music broke,
and the three twenty broke,
scattering to the street, to the floor,
to the home to hide behind glass windows and doors
and feel no sense of being,

no sense of hearing anything other than ringing in their ears,
no sense of seeing without the sight of blood-dripping fingers and toes,
no sense of speaking in a voice other than the whispers they grew familiar with behind overturned tables,

no sense of being able to celebrate themselves
much like they did before,
when the music was whole and clean and beautiful,
until many more summer mornings have passed,
until many more dirt holes are filled.


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