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On the night of the Orlando shooting[1]
In my new room on the 3rd floor, I found
A pint glass, mysteriously shattered.
I put my bare foot down, and
Swept the glass onto a scrap of paper
Because I could not find a dustpan.
[1] (50 people
dead
they paid to get in
in the
dark gyrating and dreaming
holding nothing in their minds
or some things:
getting laid,
what to have for dinner tomorrow,
their parents,
who made this beat,
how to get ready for work the next day,
how to keep the sweat from sticking to their shirt or
if they smelled good enough for him to be excited or
why the smiling white guys were always the ones to buy them
drinks or
where their friends had gone)
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