“My tv still works. I don’t know how. It has a bullet in it.”
Joy cometh in the morning.
“I can’t even go to work — my daughter told me she doesn’t want me to leave the house.”
Joy cometh in the morning.
“Summer hasn’t even started yet.”
Joy cometh in the morning.
“My sons not allowed to come over anywhere — he’s only six. I don’t want him to get shot.”
Joy cometh in the morning.
This poem is a reflection from a recent shooting where 75 shell casings were recovered; and after having just experienced Aaron Sorkin’s adaptation of Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird.
