Pockets (After Ahmaud Arbery) by Donovan Burton

~I am eight years old~
I am sweating through my shirt
in the seemingly endless parking lot
of the Wal-Mart by the liquor store,
fantasizing about what new toys lie inside,
when Mom briskly snatches
my hands out of my pockets.
Before I can turn my head
or even ask her “Why?”
I receive a stone-faced answer:
“I don’t want them
to think you’re stealing.”
I am squinting my eyes,
the way you would if someone
said that the earth was flat
or that the moon wasn’t real,
befuddled at the idea
that I could ever
be seen as a thief.
~I am eighteen years old~
I am trying to keep my eyes open,
working my way through
a never-ending Twitter feed,
when I stop and see Fox News
talking about a guy that looks like me.
He can’t talk back to them -
the interchangeable hosts with fresh smiles,
delicately hand sewn suits,
and “sold to the highest bidder” opinions -
on account of the fresh pockets
sewn onto his chest by vigilante bullets.
I am clenching my fists,
the way you do when
trying to hold back tears
or push down a scream,
befuddled at the idea
that he could ever be seen as a thief.
Donovan Burton (He/Him) is a perpetually tired computer science student from South Carolina. He likes pro wrestling, classic literature, and proving people wrong. Twitter: @ManofPixels