Pittsburgh, I love you, but you don’t treat your roads well:
you’re turning them into cemeteries.
No, what I mean is – you don’t treat your kids well:
you’re turning them into obituaries.

A Rose by another name
would sound less Black,
would look less Black,
would walk away without 3 holes in his back –

but this is how he bloomed
and didn’t have a chance to wilt.
His blood-red petals
on the pavement were spilt.

A day later it rained.
Is this how Heaven grieves?
Wash the road where it happened,
but the stain never leaves.