This is a poem about a father's anguish over his daughter's death due to a drive-by shooting.
The rain fell, a flood from above as though from some unseen
river over the heavy, dark clouds.
I stood there with my loving wife, her tears a greater torrent.
Umbrellas, side-by-side, our daughter's grave but inches away.
There is no way of hiding souls with broken hearts, no covering,
only souls left bare and naked.
And she cried, cried, and cried.
And I swore...
"I will kill the sonabitch who did this shit."
The world moved in slowed motion as I walked down the cracked,
over-tarred pavement.
My past and future a sacrifice for the event I was, with determined
mind, headed toward. I climbed the steps of the porch to a rickety
house and wildly knocked.
Someone inside screamed, and the words were: "Who's that? What
you want knockin' at my do' like that?"
Pulling my automatic from my jacket, I yelled at the door, "You
get out here you dope-dealin' sonabitch. You shot my daughter in
that drive-by, and I gonna kill you for that shit!"
Abruptly, shots blasted from inside the house, tearing through the
door, one hitting my leg, pain and blood. I scrambled to the side
of the house and waited for someone to come out.
Suddenly, sirens; police cars barreled into sight; blue uniformed-men
yelling and then...
My wife.
She stepped toward the crack house, pleading, "Stop it," and confessing,
"I had to call the police. What would I do without you?"
