By J.J. Tindall
King Love
They squared off
Revolver to revolver,
Maybe six feet apart –
Let’s call it four –
A beat cop
And a Latin King
(A child), in a standoff
On the sidewalk in front
Of my second-story flat
After sirens,
Squealing tires and shrieks
Of “KING LOVE!!!”
Race Street, West Town, near
Grand & Damen, in the full light
Of a spring morning, say 1993.
Our block was part of Insane Unknown
Territory, if I recall. I actually tried
Not to know, or mind.
That would just trigger helpless anxiety.
At the time, I had
No place else to go.
So I coped.
“GOD, please! . . . ”
The Latin Kings versus
The Insane Unknowns, the latter
Clearly a hodgepodge
Of mostly white double-losers,
Leftovers of leftovers.
Nobodies. Insane. Unknown.
In this case I figured
The Unknowns killed a King.
Neither group of teenagers
Gave a single flying fuck
About being surrounded
By fully armed cops.
Not a single, solitary
Flying fuck.
I’m from Naperville!
One is socialized to give
A fuck, flying or otherwise.
I waited for blunt noise
And bloody death.
Somehow, neither came.
The cops got that King
In cuffs though he kept shrieking
“KING LOVE!!!”
Somehow, it got
Resolved without the bloodbath
I thought I was sure to witness.
Twenty-five years later,
I distinctly recall the pistols,
All the way round.
No rifles.
The kids had Glocks;
Even the cops
(That I could see) had
Revolvers,
Only revolvers.
I wish I couldn’t
See it so clearly now.
I wish.
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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
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More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* The Viral Video: The Match Game Dance
Posted on May 11, 2018