Soldier Poet Last week I strip-searched the streets For a soldier poet Struggling to make life rhyme With a bullet-splintered shin And one long 25-to-life knife to the forehead Hešs still alive blind in one eye Rushed from pimp-walk to gimp-walk By a symphony of sirens Heartbeat who-bangin' on his ribcage Only 18-years-of-age I found his homeboy Dying from the same disease Dry eyes screaming please Release me from this two-bedroom tomb This dope smoke-filled emergency room This prison skin Rice paper-thin Tattoos like open sores Toe-tagging in the AIDS ward Still trying to be hardcore Don't call me doctor I'm not one I don't laugh at jokes But I got one About a kid with no father I taught one His enemigos rolled up He shot one They fired back He caught one Now he's looking for answers I brought one An empty notebook with lines I bought one For $1.99 Less than a gun Last week I strip-searched the streets For a soldier poet Struggling to make life rhyme with hard time I found him on page three Right next to me Scratching his way back to the beginning With nothing but a pencil for protection In this mad house of correction We all call body -Chris Henrikson