Streets of the Bronx

On the streets of the Bronx
Monday morning,
rush hour,
amusement and pain
overwhelms me?

Laughter:
as children run
trailing behind an ice cream truck;
hands waving,
mouths watering,
and change falling;
as they all
seek relief from the brisk hot sun.

Timorous:
as an angry "John"
strikes "his woman".
She softly sobs.
As his hand covers her mouth,
he retrieves "HIS" money from her bosom.

Saddened:
as I pass the homeless man on the corner;
he smells of sweat and urine.
His hands outstretched
and his honest eyes meet mine.
With pity in my heart,
I give what I can give.
As others walk by in disbelief,
I know mine is not enough.

Outraged:
a child, under the age of 13,
walks distortedly
toward the drug dealers on the corner
to satisfy his high.
My mother instincts kick in
to rescue him from his addiction.

Disappointed:
brothers are fighting brothers.
There's arguments, fistfights,
and weapons emerging.
An audience forms
encouraging those brothers
to "defend to the end!"

I close my eyes
on hopes
of it
all being a dream.

I open my eyes,
I am?.
Disappointed
Ashamed
Hurt
Outraged
Confused
And disrespected!

On the streets of the Bronx,
these are every day occurrences.
I see "my people",
I scream to "my people",
"Wake UP!!!!!"
on hopes of ending this cycle of disruption.

No one hears
-and-
No one chooses to take the blame.