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11.22.63

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  • 11.22.63

    It had just been any Friday,
    till the sun went dark
    and my mother’s words came
    dressed in her night-time voice.

    From front row seats, all eyes watched
    in black and white denial.
    Soon the yards bulged with kids
    herded away, out from underfoot.
    We were of the times and so
    commenced to play our outside wars
    with zeal and seasoned cinematic flair.

    Tommy and I laid siege to his house,
    finally bursting through the kitchen door
    amid the heat of battle, our finger-guns ablaze.
    The assault was swiftly quelled
    by a single crumpled, sobbing woman.

    There was no escape from the black cook's eyes
    as she wailed in her wounded pain.
    We had brought the dead to stand before her
    and hadn't even known his name.
    Our faces fell silent, our fingers jammed
    as she turned and fled the room.

    At six we had not yet seen death
    nor knew on that bright fall day
    witless we had acted out
    the eclipse of a people’s hope
    in the loss of that single man.
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