a thought of Crispus Attucks

well, 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, the birth of nation,

the one now dying at my feet but unlike dying

on the cobblestones of Boston.

this isn't a crime scene, Crispus.

it’s the vulgarity of petty theft.

I know it's not 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, I would've wished only the best for you.