A Brief case

He stepped into daylight as if it were neutral.
The sun blinked but guns did not.
Three bullets rewrote
his biography in the parking lot.
His wife dropped their child
when the bullets tore through him.
Two months old, still learning how to breathe.
The asphalt opened
like a courtroom with no judge.
The blood didn’t dry. It fossilized.
His briefcase is still warm with arguments
he never got to make.
Justice was not blind that day,
it was a marionette with snapped strings.
Widow marks anniversaries by flowers,
two bouquets every time.
The child would have been
old enough to ask questions.
But the answer is still bleeding
in the cracks of that concrete.