Pocket Full of Hate

It was the way he stuffed his hand Down the front pocket of his slacks As if he were standing in a movie lobby Waiting for friends Nonchalant Wanting to watch you watch him With an unbreakable stare And almost a grin His chin Jutted out like Trump’s To a shocked yet thrilled crowd That holds its breath and thinks You don’t really have that kind of power Do you? Nervous laughter then chanting “LOCK HER UP!” Chin way out Maybe he’s counting loose change down there By the tender circling of his fingertips Or weaving his pinky through a keychain Maybe it was a judge in his pocket Or Fox News or the police union Limbaugh or the lowest call of all to Law and Order That was the comfort he sought and found. Whatever it was He felt he had no need to hide his deed. My God, that kind of confidence And here I am on anti-anxiety medicine ha ha Worrying about…what? His freedom To take his time Excruciatingly suffocating a black man Beneath his knee Breaking the man’s wind pipe inch by inch In slow crunches Like ten minutes to him was but a vacation Wishing he could make it last a whole day longer Though he’s still not satisfied Wants to finish the job right Wants to observe us all doing nothing about it For a very long time More chin more grin Wants to tail this damn troublemaker All the way to the pearly gates of the county border With that hand Randomly absent-mindedly Poking around fooling around Killing time Deep down there Searching for the bottom Of his pocket Bored.