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.