And When the Thing Comes Down

The smell of beer glides across the room, The darkness, sweet and deep With smoke stacked like lumber, Covering the cracks. The roaches take shield. Stiff lipped cockroaches that bite, Their flaky smell covered by the beer, But in dim silences their sound splits The caverns of the empty cabinets, drawers and shelves. Bare room except for bed and red Light, radio and poster of Malcolm. One poster of one man who lived And died, what more is there? When in white heat discussions, gray women ask- But won't your own people be killed? eyes concerned. Bearded men answer in their minds. The things people die of, Are killed for. Past the bed, one kitchen filled with Dark men drinking. Some with thirsts from dry cracked lips Parched by strange suns. Heat waves running through that blood Like clapping thunder in a storm. We have hurricanes down home That turn men 'round. And it rounds minds like twisters This thing I speak of. And when the thing comes down...