Goodreads
del.icio.us
I barely remember the faces
of the officers just a warm,
wet breeze tugging the shirt
against my sweaty body
the red & blue lights flashing
off the buildings around us
while I'm patted down before
walking the curb and counting
backwards from 90 to 69
I was 16 never drove through
the city alone was following
my mom returning a rental
I tried to tell them this and how
we lost each other in traffic, but
they appeared clueless as if
I spoke some alien tongue
you have any narcotics
on you, they asked, have
you been drinking?
I've never smoked reefer and still
hate the taste of beer, my dad will
tell you this laughing about the time
I picked up his can of coke and
choked on the rum he'd mixed in
or how under interrogation
he found out my brother'd been
drinking his Hennessey
step out of the vehicle!
it was evening a kid pointed
out the window of his parents'
car at a red light
and I was once that child, watching
other young brothas handcuffed,
sitting on the curb while their trunks
and backseats were searched
my mind constructing
a series of scenarios for
how they got themselves
into that situation
wondering at 10, why
those guys didn't like the
friendly police, who were
just doing their jobs
my brother repeats his
order for the fourth time —
his hand over the receiver
when he mumbles
she must be new
streetlights zebra-print
my car on the way to
the carry-out
we pull into the parking lot
at Danny's — its reflecting
letters a large, red caption
floating on my windshield
we confront the voice from
the earlier phone conversation
a new face on the job, smiling
as she takes our ticket number
I wonder how long
Before she's broken by angry
Coins knocking the plastic
partition, cursing the workers,
or using fortune-cookie
English to mimic them
I wonder if the other Asian
workers were also as open
before ignorant comments
from a few of us
thickened the partition
how long
before every brown face
is a catalyst for anger
before the urge
to call us niggers burns
like a Sour Head
on the tip of her tongue
after Tim Seibles
a guy sitting in front of a juice
bar laughs at a little girl startled
by his yapping Jack Russell
Terrier leashed to a metal chair
and you know there was a time,
when like that child, he was just
as shaken walking through that
part of town after dark
but here he is, sipping a wheat grass
smoothie, his liver-spotted hand
passing a hanky over sweaty brows
toasty sandwich aromas drift
among fragrant café con leche, and
you recall when Ellington's mural was
moved for Quiznos and Starbucks
you're a little concerned as you
remember the Native Americans
displaced by the ones they welcomed
after all, nothing of these dwellers
reminds you of the Great Migration
thousands of blacks in search
of opportunities in northern cities
somebody was once opposed
to your folks integrating their
neighborhoods and schools
but here they are,
crowding the Thai restaurant
a block from your house
right next to the tanning salon
on a street, once too dark for them
to inhabit
A Cave Canem fellow and Vona Alum, Alan King's fiction and poems have appeared in The Arabesque Review, Warpland, Black Renaissance Noire, The Amistad, and Fingernails Across the Chalkboard: Poetry and Prose on HIV/AIDS, among others. His work was also part of Anacostia Exposed, a collaborative exhibit with Irish photographer Mervyn Smyth that showcases the life and energy of Anacostia.