An old woman sits rocking on a faltering perch.
Watching the street much like a bird of prey as two brown babies frolic in the mid-day sun.
Last night, night before, the crack man knocked at Granny’s door looking for Johnny who’s under her bed.
Looking for Johnny who is half dead
But the two brown babies continue to frolic in the mid-day sun.
In the dark of night the clock struck twelve and the man came back carrying a gun in a brown paper sack
He looked at Granny and was very cruel told her what she’d better do.
He looked down at us as we clutched Granny’s legs patted his gun and pointed to our heads.
Granny started rocking as she always did and pulled a pistol from under leg.
She shouted no more and we heard a bang as she dropped he pistol from her wrinkled hand.
The crack man falling spun around dropping his gun to the ground.
Granny grabbed us and held us tight and we tip toed away during the night.
Nothing was said, just one crack salesman dead.
Shoo fly don’t bother me.
Go head,
CLEAN UP YOUR OWN NEIGHBORHOOD.
Contraband Marriage, traveling along the hemline of loving after incarceration, is a love story written in lyric and free form, set in reality with a different ever after.
(Self-published. Please contact author directly to order.)
Enter the pages of diaspora in quiet introspection. Bathe your thoughts with subtle humor; synchronize your spirit-sense with history-in-heat; fall headlong with eyes wide open into
Wishing you continued creativity and an abundance of peace
With respect,
Carol Phelan Aebby
Love & Peace be with you
William
Cheers,
Dan
Ron
Regis
budd