July, 2008

The month before your father goes to prison,

you buy the cap gun with the orange tip, your friend
             buys the plastic ammo red as fire ants, and you share
the attention, the middle of the street whose potholes still carry

             contaminated dirt. The rest of America still calls you
a refugee. You wait until a car passes and push the cap gun to the other’s
             head like an impatient mother pushing food to her child.

You mean no harm, only to scare the passing cars, hoping to get them to crash
             into a fire hydrant and turn this summer into Do the Right Thing.
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