The rolling crunch of wheels on concrete

The barrel of a gun and eyes meet

A life extinguished in a second

a painting of gray, red and

faded blue, a boy's silent heartbeat.

Arms hold the young shoulders

tears of a man much older

who couldn't bear to see

a child die all lonely

the ground scarlet like the shirt's owner.

Deep in the back of my father's closet

The piece of that painting, he's still got it,

Jeans faded blue-gray and crimson,

so if you're quiet and you listen,

you can still hear the bullet.

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This poem is inspired by one of my father's experiences. He witnessed a drive-by shooting with my mom before they were married. A teenage boy was shot. My dad ran across the street to him and held him until he died because he didn't want to let the boy die alone. There is still a pair of jeans that have faded bloodstains on them in the back of my dad's closet.