I have to write,
lay it down,
gather and disperse how it feels,
invoke the power of words.
The driver, a black man, was on the phone.
He was speaking slowly,
mourning with words.
I was reading a tread: people beginning to understand.
They said her baby was comforting her.
They killed her boyfriend.
I thought I shouldn’t cry, but I made this mistake once.
I put my phone in my pocket.
I’m riding to Detroit. We need to look back,
estripar this history.
I’ve been given the yellow M access card, the money, the ride.
I pray that I can help.