Rebe de la Paz

She hood,
he hood,
they real hood; together.

Their street – a playpen,
where concrete fields and
jungle gyms – of steel,
shelter many.

Cars goin’ by,
caressed with tiny tips,
of fingers used to throwing
rocks and shoes in the air
landing where, landing how
the blowing wind makes them fall.

Sounds smell of Mary Jane
embracing nights
from the terror
of far-off lights
and screeching sirens –
Two children still playing
while yellowed lights begin to glow
upon a street sign right below.

He and she ran –
down alleyways behind houses,
up the street around the corner.
Through many yards, dogs were barking
in fear for what was near –
They knew – what was coming,
a grim reaper would walk tonight.

She chased him;
jumping fences.
He chased her;
avoiding dumpsters.
Their world a composition
between man-made
and his nature.

Screeching sounds interrupt,
the drifting lull of Brubeck’s cut,
a baby’s cry into the night
preludes the sharpened
reaper’s scythe.

Vibrations singing through the wind,
cut strings of fate, better than,
any sword, any knife;
could tear down great walls
of human life.

Cherries swirling light on dark,
revealing bodies, his and hers.
Their game fell apart,
giving them no time to fight.

As she caught him, silver wind
glimmered bright
making hood minus a life.

Hers came next,
quick and tight,
for that was how
these things turn out-
of course at night.

Tomorrow he, a number three,
will make chains from this lesson.
Golden shells were left behind
by uncaring men
in black and white.