First, you are from them,
from unaccepted union of halves that keep
butting into each other, every day. You
are from perfect gray and fuzzy

shag carpet in the sunken family
room & big TV & fireplace
& that nest-like blanket of security
when you have every thing you need

to be from art, and age, with Dean Martin
on the stereo and you know
about Louis Jordan and the old gold movies
and "Open the Door, Richard" Pryor.
Jack Benny. The slave-throated Rochester, In Living Color.
The Great Gildersleeve, and The Shadow

of the sinking certainty you are from:
homecomings that age all too fast and goodbyes
that are all too freshly cut
grass in the neat suburb that surrounds throbbing
cunt of the city you learn to caress like a lover with one hand
while she's holding your other.
And the humidity (like walking into a hot, sweet mouth).
And the river, darker than your skin.


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