"It hath the primal eldest curse upon it,
A brother's murder." Hamlet
You must have seen the folds of the sheet
over the corpse,
its feet peeking out beneath the whiteness,
the head turned to one side, as if asleep.
An ever widening pool of blood leaked
from the head wound,
creating a pool of crimson that
kept spreading in the 82 degree heat,
that was typical of a summer in Ferguson.
"My son, my son!" The father's pleas were futile,
as rough men kept him from approaching the scene.
He could scarcely take it in. The heat, the heat
didn't let up
during the four long hours that the body
baked in the hot sun.
Who was this son? This son from Ferguson?
This brother, this friend
whose voice didn't fit his body. "A boy
in a man's body," is how they described him.
A little kid's voice in a man's body,
anxious about the future, just graduated with a GED,
and soon, off the trade school.
He was anxious about that, and so approached his friend.
"Dorian, man, I need to talk to you."
So off they headed, to the store,
to walk and talk.
"Musically inclined," "reserved," "with a
"passion for fashion." His classmates liked how
he matched his shoelaces to his outfits.
smoking pot, known to be kind,
yearning for a better time.
A kid in a big man's body,
who should have been home watching "The Family Guy,"
or fixing things
instead of stealing Swisher Sweets.
For that he had to die?
Six shots, one to the head.
Guaranteed to have him dead.
But just to make sure, a
final, sacrificial stab wound from which
blood and water flowed that day on Street.
The officer claimed to be in fear of his life,
"like a five year old cringing before the Incredible Hulk."
Man up, Warren! You made a mistake, acted in haste.
The boy was unarmed. You disgust me. He didn't have to die.
Mike-Mike, Big Mike had a girlfriend he wanted to marry.
He loved to rap and make music. He confided to his father,
"Someday the world's gonna know my name."
But not like this, Michael, not like this.
For the rest of us, our lives will be forever a part of Ferguson.