A friend asked me to help her with a school assignment: Write a poem in the style of e.e. cummings. For some reason, I chose Rodney King as my subject. (She got an A.) 

Bloods. 
Crips. 
Fighting for an identity on the streets, 
Fighting for a leader long lost. 
 
Ruling their turf with sticks and stones, 
Yearning for that society, to them, unknown, 
Raging, hating, set to explode. 
 
Pigs. 
Cops. 
Upholding law in the asphalt jungle? 
Crucifying justice at a baton’s whim. 
 
Lying, twitching, a victim to The Man, 
Unknowing, persecuted because of his tan, 
Now the new King, thanks to an amateur’s hand.