A Black Boy Dances To His Death

A Black Kid Dances To His Death He dances down the street, his cap turned wrong, His crotch down to his knees and golden bright Medallion clinging to his neck – rehearsing.

It's ten AM and he's walked out of school, Praying to his ear buds, mumbling fine.

All his future cast upon an obvious rhyme.

And cars and dope and women fill the air, Though none of that is there. He is a poppa­daddy Heading for the music mill – the gate Of Biggy­Smalls. He does not know that he will share His fate, his choice irrevocable and deadly.

A black bot doesn't get a second chance And seldom gets a first. Without a stable home, Without an education and no social skill, He's made to wander among booby traps The white's have set in lands that kill, While he enjoys delusions of free will.

Inconsequential as a passing bug, He goes his way and only brief, white glances Speak concern. 'Will he kill one of us Before he burns.'

At end of evening, filled with Xanax bars, He returns to segregated rooms Which shelter from the fantasies of night, Where the quick rap smolder­burns Until the white man turns his prison lock.

Carl Estrin