The Crosswalk
A poem.
His finger lingered on the button
The crosswalk light changes
He runs across
His stride short
Black hair, black shirt, black pants, black shoes
It’s 90 degrees Fahrenheit
Sun baking onto long sleeves
His finger lingered on the button
The crosswalk light changes
He runs across
His stride short
Black hair, black shirt, black pants, black shoes
It’s 90 degrees Fahrenheit
Sun baking onto long sleeves
You should have these published, although I know it cost money.