Sunday
April 22, 2012
This "little" poem was written a ways back. It didn't get much attention back then. I think it's still a bit relevant, and remains a favorite of mine.
Race Relations
‘bout three-fifteen AM rockets slammed us.
Rawls and me we headed for a bunker.
Didn’t make it. Rawls hit the deck hard,
blood spurtin’ from his right leg.
I ripped my t-shirt off, rapped it tight
‘round the wound, applied some pressure
with my hand like I was taught to do.
I could feel his blood oozin’ through
the bandage. It was sticky and warm.
Forty minutes later Corpsmen came
and hauled old Rawls away.
It didn’t matter at the time
but one of us was black,
the other white.
So what's it matter now?
rrw 4-23-08
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