(Kansas City, 1961)
From that first morning in the hall
outside homeroom hour
John J and I joked together, shot pool,
studied in the library, ran laps together
around the practice field
He squashed me to the linoleum
with his huge black hand
if I beamed too long over a grade;
I threw trash at his face
when he splattered opinions
out of a mouth full of lunch
We were tight that way
The remains of those hundreds of days
when the only excitement was a fire drill
smile out at me from a stamp sized square
in our high school yearbook,
one of a few dark faces in a class of eighty,
bright with a look that makes hope seem dull,
a face that sobbed on the school steps
the day before a senior party at a white girl’s house,
left off the invitation list for fear
the neighbors would raise hell about seeing
a black guy dancing in a backyard on their block
Even as I swore, “John, I won’t go,”
he shoved me off with his bare elbow,
shoved off into the din of the riotous streets