I walked around stuffing my pockets
and my shirt and my pants with snow
from the grooves of tires and the middle
of the street and bottom steps.
I built a man in my image, gave him a hat
a good pair of shoes, a dime bag
and everything I’ve learned
about being black and hurt
and holy and drunk
and my mother’s son and not afraid
of the gun and he looked
more like stone after I was done.
I was so sure he’d see August,
but like his maker he could only fight
so long. I’m happy I didn’t
give him a face, I didn’t
hear him scream.