It’s a boy.
That puppy love brought forth a boy, Junior. He was the first child and the first son. He will be a junior.
and there were tears. soft cries of joy.
and Junior was ambitious. he climbed for freedom from his playpen and the security gate / he had his father’s eyes. Junior
and his father’s hefty build. shoulders, a parallel span to the sky.
and speaking of skies, Junior told his father with a trembling voice,
he saw “Satan chasing the angel and the angel running into the face of God”
and his father chuckled until he saw the picture sent from his son’s cellphone. then he believed him /
and was desiderate of his tomorrow with gold and silver with promised linings
now / that 1 a.m. phone call / trembling voice and all, now known as a foreshadow
a bewildered story of his son being spoken to. being called for. and preparing his father.
who howled / no cry. or maybe it was a shriek of thunder… no. it was a tortured howl of a man
who screamed. for the love from his first love. and he now was absent of both.
and until he figures this out / resolves the duality of his abatement and opportunity
he allows Junior’s image to flash on television screens / poster boards of protestors
hang from the bottom of his tie.
forward! with jounced approaches to justice / just as Junior would climb for freedom from his playpen and security gate
a silent howl, with copious sweats of regrets and doubts and questions. Michael Brown Sr. still no cry / this man will howl.