When Al was four,
I put johnny bread
& thunder in his hands,
trained his screams.
You want to be
ignorant, I whispered
to him, before bed,
before he could even
see himself, as a spirit.
I came home weary,
moans rose to my neck.
My wife, Myrtle, wailed,
Al kept placing his hand
to the back of the radio,
letting the shocks lick him.
When my son was the first
black of anything,
no joy came over me;
he was so convoluted
he played golf.
I knew everything
about automobiles but
I didn’t know if
happiness came from
knowing.
                 Down Euclid
Avenue, a lather of grease
made wheels turn in the lathe.
Sweat falling, as if to pray,
to the ground, where
there was no way of
knowing one’s wet
from another’s. I wondered
why people went searching
for saviors in so many
churches but praised
together at the same
concerts. I didn’t know
how many lashes to my son’s
skin it would take until
he looked like Dexter Gordon.
He’s finally taller than
the alto but he’s fried
from the circuit.
He has a body
only the army could love.