This poem was written about two separate events senior year. One was a drive-by that involved a little kid getting killed, while the other was an acquaintance from school killing a rival rather coldly. I combined the two because my memory over time had done that, but maybe somewhere in the fiction is the perspective I was searching for.

We crept up slow, not sure

which house was it. “That be where

he stay,” T said. Fear, or something,

grabbed me hard by my throat. “Give

it here.” My numb hands caressed

the nine, or was it me?

 

it gets kind of scary here:

Rumbling Stumbling Bumbling Fumbling: An American's Jittery Journey Through Life

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