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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.
Copyright ©
Robert Trezise Jr.
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