Black Suits
By Taylor Johnson
During the bluest hour,
Rank hints of sulfur filter westbound,
Numbered markers litter the ground,
Caution tape secure the telling scene as lookouts,
Semi-rounds of paparazzi flashes blind the crowd.
The gossip from onlookers grapevine throughout.
They say, “A man has been shot, and is lying dead on the ground.”
In a three-piece suit, no less; finely pressed.
Accompanied with a crimson grandfather tie adorning his breast.
With 2 two-inch holes, decorating his chest.
Upon my distress, I gathered the nearest onlooker with a request.
Who perhaps like the rest, recognized a mother undressed.
She kindly relayed she had been on the scene at the beginning of the unrest.
She confessed; the appearance of fresh picked flowers scattered all around.
White Chrysanthemums—its bouquet now unbound
Blood splattered, and caked in the hollowed sounds
As endless bailouts of goodbyes take a headcount.
She attests, “I heard he interrupted a shielded man, during his daily rounds”
Obsessed, duty-bound, on the prowl like a greyhound,
For Potential blackened targets, adorning black suits,
Their guard standing down.