If ever I die at the hands of desperate man I beg you, please, do not mourn me with a grudge or denounce him in the face of a judge 

Inquire not about the color of his skin; inquire instead of the status of his kin 

Inquire the root of his frustration and ask why he he was in such desperation that my breath became a price not worth more than making next month’s payment 

Drive past his house, and tell me if you see what those 39 men promised would be the land of the free.

Ask if it’s a world where ethics can trump opportunism as means of survival, 

and then thank the god you love that the world they gave you favored the former.

Look back at his desperate hands and replace them with your own. 

Crawl two moons in those hands, were you, too, denied a throne? 

Look down at those palms, and watch as dreams slip through your fingers and onto the dew. 

Then ask yourself if the palms on your wrists wouldn’t take my breath, too.

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