A Number 27 .

 
         
            
             
he'd drink a bottle            
while still              
fermenting glass;            
didn't care            
which labels            
had flavors            
the twenty six            
dealers would              
pass           
             
-his mother branded            
him the city            
ass            
and the law            
called her "the gospel"             
when his jail time            
came to pass.            
one gold tooth,            
skin as worn            
as leather;        
four stars          
live on each          
shoulder        
-in five ounces          
of empire black          
ink.            
the boys in cells said            
he had killed his            
brother            
-while the girls              
claimed to be his            
baby's mother.            
             
in the smoke that floats              
around his head            
is a life that            
reminds a soul            
of his father's              
death.            
             
the sheriff              
called yesterday            
"this kid is rough            
but the boy is            
innocent"            
that's what he said.            
     
evening             
silence held the            
silver-line            
staring that            
sheriff down,            
outside the            
court-house fire            
in town         
that left            
the mayor              
             
           
dead