Crime: Bad bomba and blues playing

                                                              Witnesses: The Bomba Man and The Blues Man

                                              Suspect:
                      Malcolm

My music is too loud.
I’m disturbing the neighbors.
Each night an officer at my door—
he has learned my name, won’t say it,
hopes each night the last,
prays he’ll forget this dark boy,

                               my body like this sound—a disturbance.

                                              The Bomba Man avoids me in the hall
                                              and I hear: Este tipo, sabes, keeps us up all night.
                                              The Blues Man shuts his door at me:
                                              Lawd, ain’t nothing you can do about the mess?
                                              Can’t hear me beg bendición, this descarga
                                              no jam session, but hands folded pleading prayer,
                                              anointing of drum and guitar, makeshift limbs—
                                              they can’t keep ignoring me, can’t keep calling

                    my sound—this body—disturbance.

I just want one night with no officer,
one night when The Bomba Man
and The Blues Man listen to my song in full.
I can’t sleep without their approval,
so I play: won’t you say I belong?
But I’ll never hear them sing along—