The We of Rayshard Brooks
 
Isn’t it a privilege
to fall asleep
in the front seat
of your car,
 
pass out, some nights,
from a night
of drinking?
And not worry.
 
Not worry you could
wake-up dead.
Having been found,
and not asked just
 
to move along.
Shake off the night.
To drive through
the drive-through, sober
 
or drunk from drinking
in the stars, through
the moonroof.
An accessory
 
you could afford
without worrying
too much
about being
 
overcharged.
Becoming lost
in space.
Between the black
 
and white lines
in a parking lot.
A few spaces reserved
for the disoriented.
 
You could consider
yourself one of.
In the morning
thrilled to be
 
alive. Stumbling,
drifting toward
your first cup
of coffee.
 
That constellation
of stars, you’re told,
it’s no one’s privilege
to discover.
 
Gary Margolis
Cornwall