A jagged moon is cracked and
people gather on the hill –
white teens in Metallica shirts
and a Mustang in the dusty field.
They want dirt and blood.
A pale-faced crowd forms an imperfect circle,
tall shadows shaped in columns –
the first punch makes them twitch like a feline.
This is what they wanted, right?
Dust kicks up, sticks in alcohol-drenched mouths –
black and white teens claw at each other –
bleeding lips and blackened eyes.
How do they do it in other countries?
Everywhere there are tribes:
skin tone, caste, religion – wherever you can
draw the devil’s line with innocent blood.
Flashing police lights scatter the mob –
howl at the moon and holler from a hungry belly
here in suburban America,
but it could be anywhere.