At noon they burn, in their light blue tracksuits and slogans,
The law is the law and the law is light; They chant
near where the kid was shot dead, left on the road for hours –
while his mother screamed.
They tell the cameras, Someone’s got to stand for the police –
buy wristbands – outside the police-station, All Lives Matter –
a million dollars raised for the cop’s retirement fund.
they huddle from darkness; as the black man
in his white t-shirt, that says peace and hope, walks towards them.
Oh here goes, one mutters, reaching for his Beemiller handgun.
At noon, ancestor father-sun, creator of the Osage-Sioux,
clicks his teeth and sits outside his burger-joint; smoking pipe,
he laughs, remembers how there was nothing he could do
to help his tribe. Those forced relocations to Kansas
dustbowls in the eighteen hundreds. He lost his power.
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