written By
I never cared much for hanging around.
The picture is my father.
Photogenicity was not in the genes
inherited, but I am taller
than the other kids who sat at the table
Thanksgiving days. A mother
whose large family lived nearby,
and one indirect aunt
whose cigarette dangled clandestinely, while the family,
in their Christianity, awkwardly but of necessity
pretended not to see the stomped-out butts
on the curb beside the yard.
where touch football games were prizes
after the feast. Women never played; they washed
dishes, after cooking and serving all day.
It was America, model 1960.
Men behind the wheel, and kids were clay.
But I broke free, fell on the floor, was swept up
by the times, and became what was never allowed,
an avowed disbeliever in their hierarchy,
different, but equal.
