Beatdown in Baltimore

We watched—vultures in the rafters of Wyndham Hotel, locked on the 12^th

                                         floor, visitors perched on each wing,                                          veering down into the pitched night—

a roof on fire, the after party set settling, catching a breath, respite from DMX—

                                        night owls waiting for tiny vermin                                          to scurry about, as the boney man

accepted too many fists to his face from the thick man sated on anger—

                                        trying to punch through to the center                                          of matter. Could we blame, rectify beat?

Had we faith? From Fayette to Park Avenue, a block away, the sated thick man

                                         pummeled the boney man with unseen                                          curses of gangsta' rap that rose like white

feathers into the night. Cell phones went to our ears and our voices vacillated

                                        in the azure chaos breeding each second.                                         Their souls left their mouths and pulled

up to our windows to ask directions, not to turnpike, but how to escape our need

                                        for them. That bullet scattered us back                                         behind our dark curtains and wet cravings.