At the laundry mat,
I watched a black guy
punch a white guy in the head.
I wanted to intervene but who am I
to interfere in the affairs of others?
Instead I glanced out the window
as he hit the ground.
Blood already erupting from
the split flesh of his skull.
There were two groups (a mini
race war). Blacks fighting
whites in the parking lot of
the laundry mat. Yelling and
screaming, pounding on chests
and stifled cries of pain.
I wondered what made these men
hurt so much, that they would attack
with anger and violence. I wanted
to walk to them and hug them. Tell
them there was more. But who am I?
“Put the hatchet down” I wanted to say.
“No need to call your hommies” I imagined pleading.
In the end I stood there and looked
away. It was not my fight, it was not my
battle to get embroiled in. Who am I to
tell these men what is right and sane?
When the cops came and saw the blood I acted
like I knew nothing, saw nothing
and heard nothing.
The fight was long over and the parking
lot was still a parking lot. Nothing had
changed but the red spot on the black road and
the level of my cowardice. But,
who the hell am I?