not in our town

time to close the skate park,
they said,
because graffiti art and vandals
and all that nonsense—

not
IN OUR TOWN
they puff,
their ill-fitting suits
bursting over bellies of fried piety
as they perch
up, up, upon their pedestals
and pull the wool
of their prejudice banket statements
over the glazed eyes
of their constituents.

IN OUR TOWN,
they huff,
we seek vengeance
in place of grace—
we cannot brace
the wrists of our artists
with the copper, supportive kind
to heal the carpal tunnel
from the ffffts of the spray paint nozzle.
not a chance—
what kind of message does that send?

IN OUR TOWN
we brace their bones with handcuffs
in our lust for abstinence
in place of education
because this
IS OUR TOWN
and
NOT
the tunnels of Leake
or the walls of Wynwood.

i walk away,
deaf from the
clapclapclapclapclap
of the blind gallery.