"The song was a (i)drive up(i), not a (i)drive by(i)." The black man taken into the souped up towncar swallowed hard and the tears streamed suddenly, a torrent for our times.
"What does that mean?" An older woman police officer asked some youth who'd made it into that part of the city. "It's why those people are running."
"They're not running."
"Oh dey running, making it look like they're not."
"Take up positions," the command came from nowhere and everywhere at once. "That's bad," a young tatoo'd and pierced person said.
"She's right," a National Guardswoman said. "They're all watching."
"Wait!" But the man and woman who'd resecured the "key to the City" had joined hands, (i)resolute(i), and were walking away.
"Is this because of WHITney?" A very perfumed and stiff-clothed man in a gangstah hat asked loud, but doubled over into a soggy hack of coughing fit. The hat fell off his head and came to rest, openly begging, in front of the man's alligator boots.
"I don't see no snake comin' out it," an old, old whisp of a black doctor lady gave the binoculars back to her daughter-in-law. The DIL re-hung them on her black tee shirted husband. "Go get the hat son," his voice boomed quietly, respectfully.
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