Grand Central

 

the women at a table behind us

are consoling a friend who liked

a guy that’s pursuing someone else

 

Derrick’s venting about being

led on by a girl he found out was

dating one of her guy friends

 

I watch him hunched over

as this romantic setback

bullies his ego

 

that was me the year before

when I fell for a woman

still sore from her ex

splitting for his old flame

 

I recall the conga lines

in the cruise commercials

I saw as a youngster: the

human-boxcars linked into

a train of dancing bodies

 

that’s how desire drives most

of us – linked by the possibility

of getting what we go after

 

two sistas check the brother

on the couch, probably wishing

he was keeping them company

instead of their male friend

lying limp beside them

 

I can only imagine what

the guy’s thinking, watching

his lady friends wishing he was

so much more to one of them

than just tonight’s escort

 

or wishing the right words

were an express he could

catch out of the friend zone

 

 

they rise and leave, he

trails them--a caboose amongst

the other sad locomotives

drifting through

 

 

 

First Offense

I barely remember the faces
of the officers   just a warm,
wet breeze tugging the shirt
against my sweaty body

the red & blue lights flashing
off the buildings around us
while I'm patted down   before
walking the curb and counting
backwards from 90 to 69

I was 16   never drove through
the city alone   was following
my mom returning a rental

I tried to tell them this and how
we lost each other in traffic, but
they appeared clueless   as if
I spoke some alien tongue

you have any narcotics
on you, they asked, have
you been drinking?

I've never smoked reefer and still
hate the taste of beer, my dad will
tell you this laughing about the time
I picked up his can of coke and
choked on the rum he'd mixed in

or how under interrogation
he found out my brother'd been
drinking his Hennessey

step out of the vehicle!

it was evening   a kid pointed
out the window of his parents'
car at a red light

and I was once that child, watching
other young brothas handcuffed,
sitting on the curb while their trunks
and backseats were searched

my mind constructing
a series of scenarios for
how they got themselves
into that situation

wondering at 10, why
those guys didn't like the
friendly police, who were
just doing their jobs

 

 

 

God’s Little Helper

 

four a.m., 14 years old

my face glowing from t.v.

projections of busty bikini babes

with slender waist lines

 

$1.99 per minute, one of them said,

her sumptuous lips wrapped around

the head of a blow pop

 

testosterones led an air strike on

my cerebrum, vapors spread like

mushroom clouds over my crotch

 

left hand snatched phone, right

one dialed then grabbed the hand-

brake in my underwear

 

sweet voice asked, how you want me?

I told her on all fours, a feline arch

at her lower back

 

inspiration made a greasy palm

a warm, slippery shaft   lots

of moaning before I hung up

undiscovered by waking parents

 

one-time thing became

recreational, a $600 phone bill,

an angry mom and dad waiting

for an explanation

 

they didn’t believe I thought

these women needed Jesus, that

I was a prophet of Christ himself,

sent to deliver them

one   by   one

 

 

 

Loop

 

you lie in bed, sunlight jutting

through Venetian blinds, 

spreading across your covers

 

you hope today will be different;

that dumb-luck will find you in a

situation you’ve been in several times

when a woman’s caught you stealing

glances at her in transit

 

this time, your voice won’t retreat

as you go into shock: gaping at peach-

colored lips and vanilla bean thighs

that escape up a knee-length skirt

 

when you were younger, the only

reason you liked Fall was time

turning back, a second chance

to live the hour differently

 

you remember wanting to slap

an office worker for lecturing

you on what you’re paid to do

 

or you think about an ex,

wondering if you weren’t so insecure,

would you be together now?

 

these thoughts orbit your mind

as you stare into space, imagining

earth a giant Turntable the celestial

DJ spins your life on and every

dull day’s a continuous loop

 

 

 

 

The Dwellers

after Tim Seibles

 

a guy sitting in front of a juice

bar laughs at a little girl startled

by his yapping Jack Russell

Terrier leashed to a metal chair

 

and you know there was a time,

when like that child, he was just

as shaken walking through that

part of town after dark

 

but here he is, sipping a wheat grass

smoothie, his liver-spotted hand

passing a hanky over sweaty brows

 

toasty sandwich aromas drift

among fragrant café con leche, and

you recall when Ellington’s mural was

moved for Quiznos and Starbucks

 

you’re a little concerned as you

remember the Native Americans

displaced by the ones they welcomed

 

after all, nothing of these dwellers

reminds you of the Great Migration

thousands of blacks in search

of opportunities in northern cities

 

somebody was once opposed

to your folks integrating their

neighborhoods and schools

 

          but here they are,

crowding the Thai restaurant

a block from your house

 

right next to the tanning salon

on a street, once too dark for them

to inhabit

 

 

 

© Alan King 

 

 

A Cave Canem fellow and Vona Alum, Alan King's fiction and poems have appeared in

the Arabesques Review, Warpland, Black Renaissance Noire, The Amistad, and Fingernails

Across the Chalkboard: Poetry and Prose on HIV/AIDS, among others. His work was also

part of Anacostia Exposed, a collaborative exhibit with Irish photographer Mervyn Smyth

that showcases the lifeand energy of Anacostia. http://myspace.com/alanking81, nyckencole@hotmail.com