Mercy for the boy behind the counter
who accepts the blue-tinged twenty
for the fingers that dial
this unwarranted destiny
Mercy for the cop
who would not kneel
in solidarity
now bending his knee
to choke back breath
Mercy for the nine minutes
it takes to crush the neck
of a Black man to breathlessness
for the dying man himself
whose last words are a prayer
to the one who brought him
into this life
and
Mercy for her
already two years dead
unable to cradle her boy
or kiss his cheek
pressed to the street
still warm
with sunlight’s vanishing
Mercy for neon’s indifferent buzz
for spring’s gloaming
that casts the day’s last
gold without favor
as if there is truth
in the myth of equity
as if all falls to each of us
in equal measure
