97
young
black
boy
waiting
for
his
bus
my
pants
have
holes
in
the
pockets.
my
hands
get
lonely.
i'm
waiting
for
a
bus,
but
they
think
i'm
waiting
for
something
else.
they
think
i'm
worth
waiting
for
for
all
the
wrong
reasons.
silence,
the
song
of
my
generation,
cuts
my
hands,
but
the
drops
of
blood
never
crash
hard
enough
for
them
to
hear.