Poetry by Ron Dowell
Compton College Students Hold Weed-Stank Breath in a 2001 Pontiac Aztek
Sheriff Deputy’s creeping black and white,
flashing red lights, their CrownVic stopping steep
the ugly yellow Aztek this cold night
Compton College students brimming 5 deep,
burning klieg light, dirt crunches beneath boots
eyes widen students heads bobble like dolls
passing mongrel dogs bark a white owl hoots
lead cop un-holsters his nervous resolve
the Aztek turn signal winks one red eye
at sweaty cops peering through windows tint,
smoky weed, the burnt-orange moon hangs high
a palm tree bends fronds sway in a breeze thin
the trainee cop wavers parkway muddy.
A student’s heart pounds he needs to study
Cycling to Death
(Cop-out)
after Cruz and Tchekmedyian
Riding his bicycle on a sidewalk
riding his bike on the wrong side
his bike didn’t have lights
his bike safe from The Rona infected buses
he stole a glance at a two sheriff’s deputies
a reservoir of resentment
he was scared and
quickly he pedaled away
second-class – profiled - executed
robbed of full participation,
all male and Black or Latino —
at home his big brother eats popcorn
and watches Adam 12 reruns on the widescreen
his sister searches Ebay’s American made
tricycles for her daughter
and jumps when a car backfires
and their dog barks and scratches the door
sheriffs thought he had a gun,
followed with lights and sirens,
Paramedics.
To them he was a broken window
like jaywalking, loitering, and fare evasion
needing aggressive enforcement
good police work, cop-out, pretext
to justify and boost an officer’s stats
and department standing
or gang trained to be proactive
the right way
not out there terrorizing,
not out there racially profiling,
not there engaging systemic racism of any kind,
in crime-riddled neighborhoods
“overwhelming majority” of whom are gang members —
consistent with persons armed and dangerous.
Why are you out on your bike at this time? In rain?
Did you do anything that might get you in trouble?
When was the last time you did drugs?
We’re trying to keep people alive
—killing them in the process.
How often do we hear of white guys
on bikes in Encino, shot dead?
It’s like having golden blood,
lacking antigens and rare.
Pee-wee Herman loved his cherry-red vintage
Schwinn racer more than life itself,
and achingly when it disappears he said,
“I know you are, but what am I?”
“Did my brother’s life
have to be interrupted?
—what did he do wrong?”
His big brother still grieves,
and despite the arthritis in her feet
his sister takes to the protest streets
telling people to get on bikes is a death sentence
