LeTroy

I know a girl whose therapy
is sitting behind black congregations
and cheering herself on
with juxtaposition

She dreams of plaster dust
and dynamite sermons
a 16th Street fantasy is
something to stand for

But she's relegated to valleys a-buzzing
with sliding glass doors
and mock patios
cars on their tracks far in the distance

frogs grow in bubbles
that's all she learned
from backyard expanses
and the drains that ran through them

She knew nothing of Africa
or the maid's son,
a gold toothed boy-wonder
He was eleven

Now he works at the Krystal's
With a third on the way
Freezer kneels and fryer prayers
coupled with post-work hay

and rush hour breakdowns
where tears melt in brown hands
behind purple tints, peeling and faded
now where did those times go

when WCW was his sitter
and lawnmowers blew bubbles
and LeTroy felt so proud
to have another day roll

off of his back and into the garden
where mama's green beans
grew all year 'round
But the world isn't brownstones

and porch swings sit empty
in heaping trash piles
and dumps by the river
and he'll never go back when

shoes really mattered
and you could jump high
and run fast
right into the sun