i barely remember the faces
of the officers.. just the breeze
and her warm, wet hands tugging
my shirt against a sweaty chest

and the headlights bouncing
off the buildings around us
while i'm patted down.. before
walking the curb and counting
backwards from 90 to 69

i was 16.. had never driven through
D.C. by myself.. was following my
mom returning a rental

i tried to tell them this and how
we lost each other in traffic, but
an alien tongue, only they can
hear, possesses me

"you have any narcotics
on you," they ask, "have
you been drinking?"

i've never smoked reefer and still
hate the taste of beer, my dad will
tell you this laughing about the time
i picked up his can of coke and
choked on the rum he'd mixed in

or how under intense interrogation
he found out my brother had been
drinking his Hennessey

"step out of the vehicle!"

it was evening.. a kid pointed
out the window of his parents' car
stalled at a red light

and i was once that child, watching
other young brothas handcuffed,
sitting on the curb while their trunks
and backseats were searched

my mind constructing
possible scenarios for
how they got themselves
into that situation

wondering then, why
those guys didn't like the
friendly police, who were
just doing their jobs

nice. I have a similar story to this one that I might share one day. I was 17 at the time.