Pop Pop Pop

Pop Pop Pop Pop Pop
the repetition came so fast.
I knew immediately what I just heard.
I sat at the window and out I peered.
young people running in every which way.
trying to escape the blow of death that was now here.
below my window, I saw three young men
sprinting and yelling with blood-curdling fear. Not knowing
if they would live, see, or anymore hear. Sirens
blaring in the distance get near, police in their
cruisers rushing to a fate unknown.  Blocking
cars with people rushing to get free. Blue and
Whites lined up the street. Cutting off traffic
as they unroll tape to protect their crime scene. An ambulance
arrived and pulled straight ahead, medics grabbed a
stretcher and rushed to the site where a man was down,
that much I could see. Time drifts by and I can sense
what must now be his fate. They cautiously and slowly
wheel the body back, their hurriedness has quickly
disappeared.  Slide the body aboard for his final ride and off they
go, carrying a life that is no more. Police activity
lasts throughout the night.
As the sun on the horizon breaks, I will learn I was right.
A man of twenty-five has seen his last daylight.
An altercation is what the newsmen say, shot several times,
all for what, I do not know. But twenty-five and now
he’s gone, a statistic, a number, like all those shot before.
Three days have since gone by, and the nights offer no respite.
I hear their screams as they run in my dreams.
I will forever see where that young man died.
cars now park on the pavement where death once lay,
and no flowers or memorials are in sight. No one mourns for
a life that was lost.  Not a care for what transpired
under those stars. Lives mean nothing in these times we live,
money is what matters most by far.  This small city
in which I reside is a top murder capital in this country of
mine.  A land where guns outnumber people by two to one,
and where people use them for their purported sporting fun.
our right to live means nothing without an intense fight. The value
of our breath and blood is a sum of none for those who traffic
these guns. Our blood is red and all that matters is the color green.
Capitalist profits in their hands are all that is seen. As days go by
how many more pops will be heard? Each pop
snuffs a life, and gun sales and ads will still
run high. From all this death can a lesson be learned? Tonight, was a
murder for me to see, in time, without a doubt,
it will be ten, twenty, and probably more will be.
with all these guns, I say aloud,” How much time
before that pop strikes me?”

John Ganshaw