LatinosUSA

That June we played basketball

next to brown brick St. Mary’s school.

When I dribbled, the ball nicked the crazed

cracks beaten open by persistence of the weeds

and careened into the narrow street.

You and Geri laughed at me,

you guys performed from the cracks, knew how

to take decay and play it for effect.

Down at the record store, patchouli-scented,

and strewn with posters once discarded

we’d scrounge from their trash, layer our rooms,

your hair like Cher’s, you chatted up the kid,

walked out with six singles under your poncho.

Screw those weeds sprouting up

under the hoop, ruining the hopscotch court;

not caring if they were goldenrod or wild grass,

I just wanted you to play fair and stay the same.

We had to spend time with the adults too,

Grandma Mamie and Anna-Maria the almost-nun,

your mom’s best friend, and our mothers of course.

They told me I was growing like a weed,

for godsake, a clumsy giantess of adolescence,

but I just looked tall next to you, unchanging portrait.

You kept your first communion expression

around them, saving your rage to spatter the street.

Full of good spirited fun they call you

in hindsight, not seeing the wellspring

of anger exacting a good time for all.