NEESHA

He was dead in the street by the gutter
Framed by houses once considered grand
And architectual -now worn and tired
On the wrong side of the freeway.
A brownish black, well muscled half-breed
With that same flat nose and strong jaw
As the dogs we see on the evening news
When they’ve been sentenced to die by lethal injection.

No mortal wound announced his killing
Yet life certainly fled or crawled away.
A choke collar around his bull neck
Controlled the jaw-snapping killer
He’d become for someone’s ego.
A living weapon -- an enforcer who
Sometimes turned and mauled his own.
Now this gladiator waits for the garbage truck
To come and toss him on the heap.

Neesha’s the new girl in fourth grade.
Tall, almost black, and larger than the rest
She looks more boy than girl
Enveloped in a grown man’s running suit
With short tight braids anchored to her head.

She turns away and will not look at you
Hooded eyes stare blankly into nothing.
She does not speak, and when her name is called
Pulls her jacket up around her head
Guarding secrets too terrible to tell.
An arm around her shoulder does not comfort
But makes her body tremble.
The legacy of crack cocaine passed down in the womb.
Defiant and depressed she waits for rescue
Knowing that none wiill come.