NEAR forty years now, in a bustling place,
Where learning and winning was accomplished – not chased.
A boy lost his life from a flick of a finger,
A mind full of hate, but no imminent danger.
Till the mind told the hand, “You must pull the trigger.”
And the finger and hand, they complied – with vigor.
Footprints in snow, blood in the hallway,
Three slugs put poor Arthur down that day.
The very idea was so horribly shocking,
There was no hint of a threat that folks should be stopping.
I spoke with his father, so many years later,
A gentle old man, who did us a favor.
Still trying to make sense of the loss of his son,
A boy of fourteen, his race just begun.
And now that these murders are so commonplace,
An overlooked clue might lead to disgrace.
So look lively, and sharp, and obey all your senses,
For the death of a child you pray not bear witness.