the new york
city sidewalk
twists and cracks
like an african
woman's veins
that are
slowly going dry.

a bird is shot
by a b.b gun boy
and falls down
from the sky

decaying
on the street
like the bodies
collecting
on the desert
concrete.

an old man with
a cardboard sign
and i, are looking
up at the sky.
it's gunshot red,
as if the light
had reflected
off the flames
from the fire
that swallows
children whole
in sudan tonight.

there's electric warmth
in our sedans
as the radio transmits
cries and sobs of a man
falling down
a village well
in what we call
black man's land.

i did not know a man could fall down so quickly to the ground.

something is
inspiring
about the half-eaten
hot dogs suspended
in our brick
garbage cans.

and,
i like to think that

if the crackling
sidewalks of
this street really are
cots from crowded
hospital rooms,

and the blood
from their
mother's back,
really was sent
to us by some
universal god
towards the amber sky

to let us know they're out there,

maybe my hands
can stretch across
an ocean

and i won't need a visa from
the sudanese government

to at least
give them a piece
of my half-eaten
hot dog.