I Am A Black Man In Florida Buried In A Unmarked Grave

they built a ballpark over my bones, laid asphalt like a priest's last lie— no headstone, no name, just beer guts and baseball caps spilling nacho cheese where I once bled. I was twenty-three, shot twice in the alley behind Leroy’s Bar, the paper called me “suspected.” that was all they needed. the morgue forgot me, the state ignored me, and my mother— she wept until the flies outnumbered her prayers. now they cheer a double play while I sleep beneath their roars, rootless and rotted, a ghost who never swung a bat— but still waits for justice to round third base and come home.