The morning dew sticks,
The southern humidity high before sun up.
Humidity materializing, sopping wet palm tree’s
Out of thin air hot.
Waiting, Nana drives by old tractor, maybe a farmall
She is already sweating from the anticipated work ahead.
Nana is in her late 60’s, my best friend’s granny she takes care of him
Rusty’s family wont, Nana’s jet black hair shows patches of baldness the grey
Streaks showin through Nana is a hard lady, sleeves ripped off, jeans, and work dirty.
As I wait
Throwing rocks at tree’s the yellow bus comes
Canton Street Elementary was desegregated in 1970, it took a year longer than most
Schools in the south, Canton sat in the most poverty stricken area of Wharton, Co
They called him “spook”, “He black as the ace of spades,” I heard someone say that
Chris Williams was dirt floor poor, his broken glasses hung on his ears with
Pieces of twine.
“don’t be messin with that girl.”
“you, finin’ da get popped.”
“you, aint gonna do nothing.”
Chris was short even four a fourth grader, and never really did grow.
But, man! He hit me so hard, I didn’t just see stars but, comets and planets and shit!
I hit the deck Chris and I good friends ever since.
I saw a clipping a couple few years back,
Chris had passed.
The walkways around our school were covered with cobbled together steel,
Because of the rain
Texas rain big ass juicy bucket drops of rain
“it’s raining like cow piss on a steel roof”
There an down there, the water seemed to fall from the ground up.
Pain, not a fact of life, but a southern truth If we wasn’t fightin in the yard
A teacher was hittin us
“look at the duck, put your hands on the desk.” I heard those words many a day
Mr. Montello had a picture of a duck behind his desk
Tapped up paddle stung like a hundred bee’s in the future he would loose
Not by law But, by us thieving kids
Southern fried racist
Word bombs on the back of a struggle before birth,
Symbols n in cantations cross street separations
Graduate kids unable to read, unable to find Texas
On a map
Cost seeps through rotted wood one man’s suicide, another man’s entertainment
The Sunday paper costs 50 cents, you know 50 cents of tragedy.
Sloshing in the marsh tied to a tree or even hung
How many dead people amount too one you know?
How many dead people make a good show?
Tractor pulls your weight there is cotton in my ears
Cant you hear
System of tears, Maybe that’s why it flood so much in Texas, all the fuckin tears
And the cotton wet stickin in your ears
YOUR WHITE T-SHIRT is stained,
A sloppy stain. Gluttony fools gold harboring ships of ideas soft with fear
And I don’t care about you anymore
Burn you down burn down this town down
And the morning dew still sticks
High heat at sundown.
Copyright, Christopher Leet 2011