Wes
A boy
he was, and young to know of death
And
waited he a cent’ry of seconds
To see
his father’s face ghost-white, sans breath
Both
died, the air and tears, behind his tongue.
The
rules he learned of guns and compounds strange
Of neaf
and neighbor he was taught by punch
And so
from wary stranger he did change
To
budding boy cut loose upon the Bronx.
Two
paths to take this wayward boy must choose
Affect
the school, or lose quite soon the streets
While
bosom friend shows him the hangman’s noose
A
diff’rent future he paints just as sweet.
A boy he was, who found in life a
door
He was no less, but we can say he’s
Moore.
***
Other Wes
Father
was a name he never knew
And
gangs and streets the bourns that he had bourn
Games
he knew not locked in his brother’s due—
His
mother dear a corset young but worn.
Brother
was a bug he could not aspire;
Footsteps
his he followed with knife in hand
But
there the wicked cop-lights did red twire,
And his
fight foiled to make himself a man.
Such
strange compounds and brawls his tokens were—
All
this sightless, without mother’s suspect—
‘Til
fateful day his hidings she did skirr
And
learned the extent of her son’s defect.
If only with this finding she had
saved
Our gentle Moore, who’s now more to
the grave.
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