“Take a stand” they shout,

the megaphone making their voices

seem distant, but loud.

I smoke my cigarette,

a rare white face

in a throng of

brown-skinned pain.

 

I can’t raise my voice

to join in with

their anger, frustration, heartache.

It’s not my place.

What could I possibly say?

Just add another body

and make a bigger spectacle.

 

“How many more

dead young black men

in the streets?”

They are crying out.

No one is listening.

The streets of L.A. are filled

with the ghosts of dead men.

 

A woman in a raincoat is

proselytizing

on the opposite corner

even though the sky

is bereft of any clouds.