Nine Eleven

The old woman argued relentlessly, her case.
Resolute, she raved in her conviction;
two thousand and one reasons were there for her to be mad.
Eleven was given to questioning eyes.

It was September,
and Bernice brought home the bourgeois man,
and the two fell
from the pedestal they held among friends in the big city,
(the city) a melting pot,
now a city in affliction.

Bernice’s brown eyes combed the neighborhood;
two boys, with open arms, played aero planes;
across the street, the rug pilot laughed his ass off
as if mocking the bourgeois man,
and his woman hid her face in rags …, in degradation –
but her sad eyes still mourned her son’s suicide.

Grief of that magnitude brings offense,
and the bourgeois man was red with wrath,
and he abhors the old woman with every inch of his being.
Racism was reversed.
He avowed by God to ruin the rug pilot,
and the people that loved him consented.

Hearts were left to wonder what makes men so cruel.
The reasons for the old woman’s rant was explicable,
and of the grounds for the revenge on the rug pilot,
the negros conceded in only one instance.
Revenge was foreseeable,
and the spirit breeds more phobias.