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THE REHEARSAL
©1979
Gilbert Belmudez
The line stretches from the casket
and out the church's door.
We've rehearsed this solemn march
so many times before.
The wreaths and flowers overflow,
their scent sweet,
like the coffee the widow drinks
on Sunday mornings
after church
but never before she goes to bed.
It keeps her, "up", she says.
Like the, "Pop! Pop! Pop!",
that gunshots make
on Saturday nights
and Sundays
and Mondays
and Tuesdays
and so on.
The playground is the battleground.
The victims are ourselves.
There was Chuy,
Terry,
Mike, Johnny and Tito.
Ruben and Rebecca.
Little Ray.
Hector
and now we bury one more
but Richie?
He was different.
He was one of us
but wasn't one of us.
Isn't that what we always said
when questioned suspiciously?
Like the "Carnale" that is my brother
and the brother I call "Carnale"?
Richie, one of us,
was walking down the street last week.
Strolling like he always did
on Saturday nights.
Breathing in the air
and taking in the beauty
of dim streetlights when,
"Pop! Pop! Pop!",
that familiar sound came once again
and Richie lives no more.
The line stretches from the casket
and out the church's door.
We've rehearsed this solemn march
so many times before.
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