I was murdered in my bed
(the assassination of Fred Hampton)
every time I lay
asleep those dream
manumissions escape
marooned mental
mountains waiting unlock
the underground railroad
there are no freedom riders
no abolitionist
one hidden history book
shelved electronic-hand children
dare not touch teachers
delve for fear of standard
a monthly quota
asleep night sweat
frigid Chicago wind east
plants seeds of suspicion
each time I dream
time ticks before
the day’s light conspires
chance to redeem myself
might as well sleep
past the man still
picking dried chicken
bones from the trash
can on Thanksgiving
still haunts me
it is so easy
to take it all away
those pig’s feet boil
on Nostrand Avenue
children resembling gang
stir parade faux guns
Robert Gibbons