They are still shooting us in the streets. Not just this year. Or even last. All of my 73 years and my father’s years and his father’s years. My grandfather's father, my great grandfather, was born into slavery. You know how that went. Both of my grandfather’s moved north. Looking to breathe that fresh air of freedom. That was before the red summer of 1919, when white folks killed black folks north, south, east and west. And it never stopped. Let up a bit from time to time. Went unreported even more often. These days passing people catch it on their cellphones. We’ve moved north. We’ve moved south. We bought land. We voted.We got educated. We marched and protested. We sang,rioted and rebelled. And even while we are marching, they are still shooting us down in the streets. Talking about new days,tearing down statues, retiring Aunt Jemima and Uncle Ben, feeding exploited workers fried chicken and waffles. Back in the day, I would have ended this poem with a call for REVOLUTION! Now I just wait to see if they will again diffuse this anger with drugs. Or if it will explode.