There is a chance tonight
that my boy might meet yours.
In an empty alley or
an angry apartment
where a child screams in terror.
In that split second,
my boy may think of his own son,
the infant sitting on his lap
playing with his badge,
wonder-filled eyes
looking up at his daddy.
When they meet,
will your son pull a gun?
Will he run?
Will his angry, addled brain
produce a hell-rage
that makes him unrepentant,
unrecognizable, even,
as your son?
Our boys will have
only seconds to
decide one another’s fate.
Tonight,
every night,
we both pray
it will not be too late.