The City Slowly Dies: For Kingsley Allen, 1973-1990
By Michael B., Hingham, MA
Inside the walls of Boston High
A fight broke out, and I became
The one hundred and fortieth homicide
And the city slowly dies.
I tumbled down a flight of stairs
Surrounded by the broken children
One of whom still held the knife
And the city slowly dies.
My mathematics teacher ran
To try and keep my soul alive
Yet already I had touched the sky
And the city slowly dies.
Away I wandered from myself
I asked the city to please forgive
The broken child who took my life
And the city slowly dies.
A few tears, remorse, and half-staff flag
The most attention I ever received
Inside the walls of Boston High
And the city slowly dies.
It's not his mother, it's not the school
It's the leaders of this bitter country
I left it as my mother cried
And the city slowly dies.
I knew a statistic would be my fate
Whether or not I lived or died
I'm the hundred fortieth homicide
In a city that slowly dies.
"As the city slowly dies." is how Mike Barnicle ended a Dec. 9th column on the 139th homicide a day or two before Kingsley Allen's. This phrase stuck in my head, and became the basis for this poem.
|
