Wednesday, December 28, 2016

Hunters Point, San Francisco CA (Bus # 54)

A man so tall,
lean as a reed,
a large afro-topped head,
on a long strong neck,
like the Sequoia of his land,
engaged me,
in a conversation,
after I offered a salutation,
'twas one early morning,
with the fog racing back home,
a tingling cold chill,
a true Hunters Point early morning,
been here a long time
said he,
way back in time,
when them I-talians left,
is when I left the other side,
to come and live this side,
the other side being the North ridge street,
this side being Albatross street,
we were the Hill dwellers,
and everywhere it was ebony,
we policed our neighborhood,
and no nonsense was entertained,
this has always been a dormitory neighborhood,
even after out yonder that shipyard closed,
a mother walks hurriedly,
her phone is missing,
a teenage daughter,
borrowed it while she napped,
a bus comes uphill,
the #54,
and out comes the daughter,
mother, mother, mother,
she calls out,
she proffers the phone,
the mother is happy and annoyed,
don't do that shit no more,
goes the annoyed side,
mother I......
the daughter pleads,
the annoyed mother has daggers for eyes,
the daughter is mollified,
endures the walk of shame,
by the third stride,
the happy mother returns,
mother and daughter,
are planning what to have for dinner,
a Pacific-islander,
sits side by side,
with another from another island,
two passengers from the north pole,
two passengers from the East,
bid farewell to three from the South,
at a bus stop,
a young boy,
yields his place to a senior,
on the bus rolls,
ama-gonna-whip-yo-ass N....,
this from a junior high school girl,
to another on the roadside,
apparently a spill over,
from an unresolved school scuffle,
perhaps over a locker,
or could it be a boy,
the whispers made the rounds,
the junior high school boys,
as well as some of us,
reacted indifferently,
to this sudden tirade,
at Hunter's Point,
one finds,
true meaning,
to words like,
and America.

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