South Carolina

We were in fourth grade.
Another fall day in the suburbs,
shooting BB guns in the back yard.
Michael's dad, a short, slightly balding Vietnam vet,
stood by watching us.
He was still in his bathrobe, smoking cigarettes and sipping coffee.
After we shot our fill of soda bottles,
we blew up some GI Joes with firecrackers.
The good ones severed the rubber cords inside the little soldiers,
releasing all the limbs and and the pelvis from the green plastic torsos.
After a while we ran low,
and started talking about where to get more fireworks,
as they were still illegal in Georgia.
Alabama was one option.
Michael's dad suggested South Carolina.
"Really? They're legal in South Carolina?"
"Yeah," he said, with a little squint and a little smile,
taking another sip of coffee.
"Everything's legal in South Carolina."
We faked a knowing chuckle,
having no idea what he was talking about.
I'm actually still not sure what he meant.

In the Middle and Outside

A small black boy on the subway,
his knees squeezed tight
between mom's big bag and
Aunt Sheri's new boots,
wants out.

iPod vines sprout from mom's bag
stray over his chest,
dance on his arm but
don't stay, never stay long,
thin arms reaching ever beyond.

Mom is jamming,
Aunt Sheri's stomping,
and the boy is rolling
his eyes, can't wait
for the stop, for it all
to stop, for his song
to play, outside.

Sixth Grade Dance (revised)

It's the same now as then
the way we're all standing against the wall,
amateurs, unsure of what to do with our hands
or where to look;
big hungry babies,
naked in our awkwardness,
scanning for eye contact,
hoping we'll find a brief embrace
here in the dark labrynth of the dingy arcade,
the muffled moans tickling our ears,
the smell of bleach poking at our nostrils,
and the blue light flickering from underneath the doors.