Mob Mentality

One foot on her stoop,
One key in the door,
Kitty poured fire engine red,
No-Parking paint, out from her insides,
She emptied herself onto the street
In front of thirty eight too-busy-bystanders,
And disturbed no one.

Her neighbors gossiped on the phone,
Cursed at black and white broadcasts,
Tucked children into sheets,
Kissed wives, washed their faces,
Flossed, and prayed to God,
While a twenty nine year girl was raped as she bled
From the cuts carved deep into her palms.

With the TV turned loud, with responsibility thin,
The neighborhood watch never gets rewound,
And the sugar cups left unshared sour and stagnate,
Neighbors, in-proximity strangers, can’t hear you scream.