Art Class
America’s paint brush is the gun.
Its violent expression of blood
is only abstract
after the fact
when, body removed,
the outline of wasted youth
remains on the ground
in life’s final sprawl
that will never again
arise for a morning shower
or make a late sprint to class
or inscribe a blue book with thought
the least of which
to a mother and father somewhere
is too much to miss.
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