Every Broken Thing

Lions Park
The Poetry Of Lance McKnight

Lions Park

        Three cops with coffee survey 
        the scene. Young black with Downs 
        curved harsh in rigor, straining hard
        against wrists bound tight at awkward angle. Skin 
        sunk taut against bone, back arched high
        in violation. Not understanding. In one night's 

        sweat your terror screams - you wrench 
        the chest up, heave all 
        thought forward. Evolution was 
        never wrong. Christ died not
        a bit too soon. One cop bemoans

        the cold. Snow piling now, collecting 

        in clumps about the road. This black mutant
        snatched from Capitol Hill, betrayed by male
        gone full cycle. God knows why,

        Matthews. Some bitch howls in the distance
        at desolation. That's the key, Bill. 
        None of this crap about dreams, 
        that one last town surviving. The old man
        was never there. The breath 
        he gave was final gasp. 

                                            for William Matthews