40 Years Later…
The poem was wrong about one item: people knew.
Thanks for reading, A.S.
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…
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