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Young Men

The sound of an ice-cream truck,
Down the hill at St. Nicholas and 135th, Harlem.
I sit way up at the top, 
Don't worry, Roomie,
Far from anyone. 
You're the only one I don't talk to, 
Nowadays.
Little dogs,
Cloth masks,
Like this is permanent or something.
Someone asked me if I'd been writing,
I said, I've thought about it.
Even that felt like a lie.
It's so beautiful and calm in the park, today.
It feels untouchable.
Sacred.
References to the color green.
Like that painting.
A young man lays on a rock with his shirt off,
Several feet away.
He looks so peaceful. Quiet. Small.
Is it important to mention his race?
It's the way we tell stories in America.
He looks so peaceful.
Like the middle of Spring.
Ahmaud was running. 
Exercising two days just before his birthday.
Just before Mother's Day.
I can imagine running down a residential road in Georgia,
It just sounds peaceful,
Open.
Feeling good about getting out,
Moving my body,
Was he thinking of affirmations for his year ahead?
Putting positivity out into the universe.
Breathing, deeply in and out,
His chakras open,
His heart open,
His mind quiet?
Was he listening to music?
Was he scared?
This young man lays on the rock asleep. 
Just asleep.
So peaceful.
Breathing in and out.
Sun on his face. 
I walked over here past multiple gatherings of empty bottles,
Deflated balloons, 
Color printed pictures,
Dates,
Beginnings and endlings,
Urban shrines,
To people fallen in the war that is America. 
The largest gathering of offerings was for Geo.
Who weeks ago,
Late at night before I was to hop onto another blocking of squares on the screen, with friends back home in Los Angeles. 
I hear 4, thick, "Bap!" "Bap!" "Bap!" "Bap!" sound just outside, down the block of my apartment on 143rd and Lenox.
I freeze,
I hear running,
They stop right in front of my bedroom window.
"Geo" has been shot. 
I know that's his name, because his friends are yelling it over and over.,
"Geo!" "He's bleeding." "He's chocking." "Stay with us." "Geo, NOO!"
I duck behind my bed.
Stray bullets,
Drive bys,
These are words I grew up with,
On the local news.
I dial 9-1-1. 
Sirens, more sirens.
Called sirens. 
They're here quickly,
They don't drive away.
They're trying to revive Geo right there. 
I wondered in the weeks past if he had lived.
Someone told me to pray for him,
I did.
Today I saw his name.
On a color printer piece of paper.
As I walked to the park at 135th and St. Nich.
Just for some fresh air,
Some exercise.
Some sun. 
The young man is awake now,
He sits up on the rock.
A distance so near,
Here,
In the park,
Up the hill.

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