Pieta, Detroit

Pieta, Detroit

He’d been dead an hour when she came,
Ambulance waiting, no hurry now.
Her oldest boy. She cradled him,
Lifeless, nothing like asleep. One bullet.
Some big black Al Capone sedan
Turned off Bethune, gunned him down.
Two trees of Paradise rustling,
Weed-trees, skinny, inadequate.
She made no sound, just held his head,
Stared at nothing, wept. Blank concrete.
Sisterhood of Lebanon, Iraq,
Croatia, Michigan. Same pose, same tears.
Policemen brisk, neat uniforms;
Quite correct, as useless as the trees.