An Imitation Poem

I poked my head
through a door cracked, just slightly.
Intuition told me to walk away.
Now my eyes burn with what cannot be unseen.
Some kids from 214 skip past, hands clasped, down the hall

to cry out in triumph as they outsmart the decrepit snack machine.
Outside the groundskeeper tends to the blackened tree
waters and prunes, the salty sweat dripping from his wrinkled forehead
while the lot of us remain carefree
relaxing on private patio sets wih family, cold beer in hands
pink lemonade for the kids.

Later, when the flashing lights and sirens consume the peace and the fireflies of the night
it rattles the Utopia that is
the complex. People lock themselves away behind the brick walls and vines that hug them
conquered by fear and desperate for security.
The blues and reds pierce

vibrantly through their sunshiney curtains.
The kids from 214 slink back into home, their hands grasping the other's shoulder
where I'm sure purple, finger sized bruises are already forming.
That night they listened
to hollers through the usually sound-proof cielings from 216
where a husband and wife fought over safety

and leaving the complex to start brand
Who is guilty? The complex wonders
as a collective unit
that no one seems to know the answer to.
As the police cleaned up the remains

I worried would the worms pick her bones,
would she haunt the pathologist who must scalpel and grope away at her body?
From 211 came a witness with spectacles the size of Mount Everest and empty frames,
a brain the size of a pea and some words to the man in charge
of piecing the puzzle together. Reporters scurried
like chickens without heads to get to the undesirable side of the yellow and black tape.

Later, I'm looking at that now closed door.
The kids from 214 no longer laugh
at the snack machine. Who will be held accountable?
The complex wonders. Who shall cut down
that blackened tree, twisting toward them?--
a burned hand reaching out for the next victim.