Watching Iverson step over Lue as the entirety of Staples Center responds the same way as the Roman senate did upon seeing Crassus' head cut off by the Parthians in their funny notion of "peace talks"

& I get this sensation that the blessed hands
I watch on TV have the grace & strength
To hold fast to the dying strands of the magnolias 
& whisper the songs my ancestry sang to
Make sure the roots held with the tenacity that these stress nightmares plague my nights. 

Keep my eyes along the loose dirt because I once found a golden epitaph in one of the planters just outside the pharmacy where I get my mood stabilizers & antidepressants & I can't let go of the chance to have that ray of joyous sunshine course through my skeleton again. 

Dead dead eyes peering out every night from between well stained & lacquered hardwood blinds at the joyous noise erupting every Thursday night on the corroded- citrus graffiti bridge & the well worn red brick serves as the canvas for our eulogies, hexes, declarations of love, and all our swear filled longings for the sweet life we were promised since youth but left to breathe in the cinders of the burning satchel they were stitched upon by a shaky hand who time left to be turned into the another 30 pounds of Nothing like the sand they were buried in under a harvest moon, just like their will stated.