I sit
in the police station
staring at a checkered wall,
each block
a different memory.
The policemen,
slow, yet anxious
in their approach.
The wind
bouncing
the rain
from tree to dirt.
The bat falling
from Walt’s hands,
suspended
for too long.
The sound
of gunshot
piercing air
and flesh.
The way Walt wobbled,
the way his legs gave,
the way he dropped
like falling leaves
from a soaring tree.
One of them who fired.
The blond crewcut one,
whose cap fell
to the ground, after.
The one who rushed Walt,
then cuffed him.
After.
I sit
in the police station
waiting for my parents,
trying not to remember
before.