two tens, and seven, the square root of 729
no matter how the numbers collude in air, they are there
just as I drift off, before I catch myself thinking
of other numbers, like the age at which Jesus
died

twenty seven,
my four syllabled mantra, for that is the age
you got the needle

I was not a witness, but your attorney was
how he did not weep, I will never understand
he knew they put you in a diaper before you took
the final stroll

twenty seven, and during those final steps,  
your sins yet dragged behind you, like ball and chain, not severed
by the axe of repentance, the chisel of remorse

where did the gods fail, taking you so fast from
the dim lights of the b-ball courts and your dreams
of being Michael or Magic to the dead afternoon when
you strode up the cracked walk to that crack house
and put two thirty-two rounds in the eye
of your second cousin who came in first
on your short list

all because of a hundred dollar slight
and a spoonful of powder the world could mistake
for simple sugar

you didn't fight when they strapped you in
and your final testament to an uneven world,
an insolent audience, was, "it is what it is."

did you feel the tug on your *****, from the raiment wrapped
to hide your seeping shame, did it take you back a quarter century,
when a manic mama pampered you in pampers
and kissed your tiny tummy more times
than numbers could count, though
not enough

did you, like I, in the moments between light and dark,
between this world and one where you must sleep alone
see twenty and seven flash before your eyes
and disappear before you could realize
what the plaintive plungers
and naked needle meant