.. as a rush hour tide of people winnow past, a voice rages out of the ravaged stature of a black man, and punctuates aversion with a challenge to observe and consider in sum, ‘whose America are we’?

Author's Note: 

Written as a ‘snap shot’, this short narrative can be presented as a very short monologue, detailing a moment in time on a Washington, DC, street corner.. -and etching a situation that can be witnessed in any city in America..

Extract:, my own nappy trimmed self, coming out of DuPont circle METRO, heading north on Connecticut Avenue, used to seeing the daily disconnects between the District’s tourists and its denizens, am Witness to a true, searing moment..

I have walked two blocks beneath a sun’s rabid bright; summer, its humid breath cloaks everyone. 

I reach the bus shelter at the corner of Connecticut & Q streets. There is a line of people under the glass. A steaming spectrum of color, they are an eclectic collection of the harried, vacant and oblivious..

-..and yet, they each share a look in their eye - a look, both shamed and horrified - incredulous and accosted. It connects me too. Because, at the corner: