There's a young man outside my window,
banging on a trash bin,
yelling "Fucking bitch. Fucking faggot."
What have we taught our children?
I watch him through the blinds,
fist clenched around a broken broom handle
as he swings desperately, over and over,
connecting with the side of the dumpster.
Where does all that anger come from?
"Bring him back!"
He cries out about a dead brother.
My shadow sinks against the wall.
It's a pain I cannot relate to.
It is a wound I cannot heal.
We perpetuate a never-ending cycle.
Broken children. Broken homes.
And they grow up to be broken mothers.
And broken fathers.
And broken people.
There are things about my own
childhood I still wish to forget.
"I did not fuck nobody. Y'all fucked me."
I hear him say.
You have no idea how right you are, kid.
I hear you.
You may not know it,
but your voice is one that I recognize.
Your passion is something I share.
Do not lay down your stick, boy.
Keep it aimed at bullshit and garbage.