I.
My
white
boy and
your white boys
were out the house by
dawn's early light, before curfew's
lift, before the graveyard patrol's end. The front door quaked
me awake, but the birthday-party boys were nowhere seen; dangerous, the age thirteen.
Who knows what alleys lawns cars thresholds they trampled, touched.
I only know the redneck cop
feigned an anger when
boys stifled
laughter.
Home.
Safe.
II.
And
one
midnight,
though older,
too wise in many
matters but not some, when the door
knocked, my eighteen year-old son stood shrugging, drunk, beside
a white cop who seemed almost apologetic as his younger chump. The cop then told
of cruising (nicer) neighborhoods across town until
seeing, in his headlights, my boy
toss a bottle. This
cop: all warmth,
mercy.
In
the
yellow
porch nightlight
they seemed to become
a prodigal father and son.
