We were all low once
Dirt dusted bottoms
We moved up from places that stretched, edging out under the warm orange of dusk…later blue…
We found our dungareed or tweeded hides bouncing on the small see-saw of back porches
Detroit backyards, our stretch of land, our parcel, our place
Boundaries lined up neatly
Square & surrounded by picket white or chain link walls
Water welling in the alleys, sewage puddled with litter and waste round the grates
Draining our excess
Bungalow, tudor, ranch…Wired for Hi-Fi. Confounded Detroit Edison
We had troops march in France, Korea
Now 12 am, we—loud crowd with loose collars, tie-pins askew—march to the corner to grab Crown Royal, Miller or a Bud
King of Beers
King of this place
Yelling nonsense at that boy with his transistor radio d*mn near grown into his ear
Does he have to care about what coloreds are doing about voting?
What did we have in the war? We had our boots, K-rations…pork and egg yolk. Lucky if we found a barn that wasn’t wetted out with filth and muck and years’ old straw.
They had a house, seven to a room, people with vermin and the red clay dust. Footprints all over the floor from little people who made games and toys where there were none. And sweated things out and sharecropped.
We all had a dust bowl at some point. A Tulsa in ‘21. A frown or a smile when a Negro tugged at something with words or sounds or even law.
They’re getting too…comfortable.
Time to leave this place. Too much mixing
N.A. Moore, 2014
This place is cold & sparse
But warm in trace bits
Ms. Banana skirt herself sings of Haiti in Gay Paris
Black tie, white tie
What a surprise