Cambridge is screaming
and as a result its throat is sore.
Everyone is every park and porch
stopped, looked and saw
the shot and killed on a Willow Street floor.

For a girl whom walked as if wind
over little river stream, ******
was the last thing that made her scream.
A thundering absence laid seldom slain
with a bolt of blood spelling innocent pain,
on porch-wood-decking painted cream green
salad leaf fresh, cut from the root with melded flesh.