April 2, 2006
Junkyard
They called me fat, not white. They called me Bro
when, grunting up the desiccated dead
machines, I found the Cadillac. My head
got big when Juice and Agee gasped: below,
the ride, a too-unlikely indigo
as peaceful as a baby put to bed,
a former playa's rolling stash of cred
without a wheel, engine or radio.
The junkman must have gently laid it down
between these stacks of husks for cracker-boy,
the roly-poly honky haystack, me.
I sometimes wished my skin was just as brown
as all my friends. And, heavy with that joy,
we cruised, then pushed it up to seventy.
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