He didn’t say a word when fourteen-year old Tommy got shot. While everyone ducked for cover, smoky voiced Homer, a six-foot middle-aged Black man in his charcoal trousers and slate gray jacket hovered over the waxen body.
Under a gunmetal sky he glinted, knelt and breathed life into the ashen boy. And when the ambulance disappeared on that wintery overcast day the silver-haired man walked to the tracks and hopped the iron horse. Of course we saw him again and so did Tommy. It was a cloudy day in autumn and everyone except Homer wept tears of joy… he could only smile.
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