By John Grey
When the bullet hit,
it shocked me
like it was lightning
out of the sky,
not a Glock from the window
of a car driving by.
I clutched my chest
and my knees buckled
but I didn’t fall,
not when I’d been
standing outside
the bike shop,
where I’d been staring
in the window
wondering how I could
get my hands on a ten-speed.
My chest was gushing blood like oil
but I stumbled away,
toward the tenement where Michelle lived,
not because I figured
she could do anything to help
but so she’d realize I was old
enough to be shot,
and not some kid who’d rather have a bike
than his hands around a girl.
I crawled my way
to her address in the end,
staining the sidewalk,
head spinning in and out
of consciousness.
Someone called the rescue
and I survived.
Michelle was staying
at her aunt’s, I heard later.
Never saw me sprawled
across the stoop.
So I almost died in vain.
Then I lived in vain.
I never had a bike.
And another kid got shot just after.