the alternative to the memory of Crispus Attucks

well, Crispus, what do you think?

was it worth two musket balls to the chest

for a measly couple of hundred years

plus half-a-hundred in change?

I don’t believe you’re rolling over in your grave.

I don’t believe you hear me now.

this isn't for you.

this is for me, once again invading

the setting of a scene.

Boston was hot, Crispus; all that commotion

about revolution and the birth of a nation

the one now dying at my feet, but so unlike

the dying for a cause on the cobblestones of Boston.

this isn't the crime scene of your experience, Crispus.

it’s the fundamental vulgarity of 21st century petty theft.

I know what you had in mind when you hit the street and although

I know as surely as you are dead and that the dead stay dead,

Crispus Attucks, like you I'm living among the trespassers who

are trespassing against us.