Three of us, in a circle, shooting
craps. Instead of crumpled bills
or food stamps, we used an army man,
a Dukes of Hazzard matchbox car
and Coca-Cola bottle caps, all
with �C� underneath. Never the �A�
that would have won us a million,
that hook of phonics keeping
my friends from seeing the first man
run from the apartment next to us.
But they saw White Boy come
after, shotgun crooked. He burst
the door like Superman, wood
and hinges flying like a drunk dad
after kids. They saw him aim
that shotgun, scatter first man�s back
with two shots. They saw that man
break apart on the pavement
like a carton of milk. Then, White
Boy: Bring back my shit, muthafucka
and my mom, screaming, dragging
me inside. Sweating fingers braceleted
around my wrist, no time to collect
my loot: But ma, I was winnin�.
Vinyl
While marriage was difficult, the divorce
was simple. Dad packed, Mom watched.
Dad got the records, Mom got the kids:
three afroed half-and-halfs with no idea
of the goings on. That was Germany, after
Agent Orange helped color the apartment
with Mom�s blood. After Mom rat-holed
enough money to leave. Divorce was just
the beginning: no need to mention sister,
waiting by the window like a storybook lover.
Or my daily evac of the school bus,
to be sure Mom would still be there when
I came home. What is worth mentioning
are the records. Before Dad and I loaded
the car with them, Mom put a dot of glue
on each one, vinyl gently returned to sleeve.
There was some significance for her in 2000
drops. Three tubes worth, if I remember right.