Photo of a Black Lives Matter sign at a protest.
Photo by Gabe Pierce on Unsplash

What young man wouldn’t pull up
His hooded cotton wool up
Around his head
Of an uncomfortable
Dank cool night?
And who or what hulking Figure, felt threatened While walking and stalking Said a hooded Younger
Man?
I for one, Particularly while armed With only a potentially lethal pack Of Skittles candy-
None of which fits in the barrel Of any caliber weapon I know of. So what, then, is the scary fact,
And who, the scarier one?
The man with the knotted brow and Van dyke point
Beard seems weird, ‘Pon juxtaposed with
A boy’s honest fears.
When we crossed through the “Forbidden
Woods” in times
Of yore,
No cell phone was conveniently posited In a handy pocket to call for Mom, Sis, Girlfriend, or Dad
or Nine One One. Now the archer, it would appear, May Summon the sheriff even before he Should bag
the “deer.”
Justice? For another poem, my friends. Today’s can only end
In Outrage!