No chain link fences leapt in a single bound. No juke

move Nike commercial, speeding bullet Skittles-hued
Cross Trainers. No brown skin Adonis weaving trails of

industrial Vaseline down a cobblestone street. Heisman-shucking
trash receptacles. Grand jeté over the little blue recycling

bin, a prism of clouds rising beneath his feet. Nobody all-fucked
in boot cuffs wide enough to cloak court appointed tethers.

Or slumped over, hoodie-shrouded — sheepishly scary according to
one eye witness. Definitely not going to be your Louis V

Sweat Suit red carpet fashion review, coming at you live from E!
& Fox News outside of the morgue. No chance for

homeboy in the peekaboo boxer shorts. Homeboy with the frozen
wrists. Iced. Homeslice with the paisley, Pretty Flacko Flag

flying by the seat of low-slung denim — no defense
attorney gets to call me Gang Related. Tupac

in a mock leather bomber. No statement taken
from the Clint Eastwood of your particular planned

community, saying he had the right to stand his ground
at the Super Target. Because my flat-billed, fitted cap

cast a shady shadow over his shoulder in the checkout line. No, siree.
See, I practice self target practice. There is no sight of me

in my wears. I bedecked in No Wrinkle Dockers. Sensible
navy blazer. Barack Obama tie, Double Consciousness-

knotted. Stock dandelion pinned to the skin of an American
lapel with his head blown off.

Source: Poetry November 2015

Marcus Wicker

Biography
More poems by this author

from Poem of the Day http://bit.ly/2gQS7xb

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