1968

end over end they flew 

in the cool plum darkness

of early morning. 

tightly knit batons

of yesterdays news, vietnam, 

the body count, politics, 

whichever way the wind

was blowing. my raw hands

were stained with the soft 

black ink of the washington post,

its pages full of a war i cared 

little about, 

only that it would end before 

my turn. 

just the yankees mattered, 

mantle's hits. it was before 

bobby kennedy walked

into that hotel kitchen, 

before king stepped onto 

the balcony, before 

the chicago seven,

before the riots burned

throughout the city laying

a cold black ash upon it all. 

It was before the moon landing, 

woodstock, before my father

left my mother and seven kids 

with a single suitcase in his hand. 

each morning I carried

the diminished weight 

of my route in the rain,

in snow, down the unplowed 

streets and alleys, around 

the chain link fences

that separated dirt yards 

of my neighborhood. 

and as i walked my voice

echoed in song,

high pitched and wavering, 

singing the temptations, 

marvin gaye, little anthony 

and the imperials. james brown.

i howled at the moon,

still untouched, 

a world still possibly mine.

with so much left to know.