at the end of every summer
photo by dsnake1
at the end of every summer...
sometimes at night we hear the sound of metal
against metal and in the morning there will be
blood on the asphalt, the gravel. maybe a parang
on the railroad tracks. and when nights got sweaty
there's the thump of running feet through thin walls
and we know the plainclothes are on a raid. if we mind our
stuff, don't be curious, poke our noses out, we will be okay.
and in the day, we village kids gather together
to play at adults. we play 'police and thieves'
and we bring our own toy guns and bats and knives
so most of the time nobody wants to be the thieves
because if you are caught you wait ages in the sun
for comrades to tag and rescue you, if they come at all
and also the cops love to manhandle you when you're caught.
oh yes and that was police brutality before it became news.
At the end of every summer you can't
remember the last time you wore pants.
from "Amy Check On My Square Inch of Land" by Farrah Field
The title is a line from the above poem. This is a prompt from the Bibliomancy Oracle. It can work in mysterious ways.
Shared on Poetry Pantry #210 at Poets United.
© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014