If package liquor’s sold; this hood ain’t “dry.”
Which makes their moratorium bogus
Politicians boastfully tell this lie
Pretending to give tinker’s dams ’bout us.
Since there are no bars for people to drink
My neighbors share libations in the streets
Generations of trauma without shrinks
Result in cycles where drama repeats.
The spirit of laws are lost in letters
Devoid of empathy; they promote crimes.
Prohibition hasn’t made life better.
The streets don’t have “last calls” or closing times.
Do they think black folks can’t hold our liquor,
Or does this help genocide work quicker?
Keith M. Kelley | Poet 
