Terry O'Leary


Michael Brown


His name was Brown, his face was black
he walked alone outside his shack
a siren sang across the track
and signaled clear the next attack.

A man in blue, a crackerjack,
took aim and made the evening crack -
yes, just another maniac -
the bullet holes mark Michael's back.

Submitted: Saturday, August 16, 2014

Topic of this poem: death


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