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...
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