The Brother Keepers
They know me,
still,
behind my aged teacher face.
They wave to me in my car,
running wildly home from school on a
sunny afternoon.
I smile and wave back, thinking, “my sons know me,
still.”
Caught by my discerning eye when hooking class,
they make charging returns to school,
backpacks rocking side to side.
I protected them once.
Defended them.
Gave them self-respect, pride.
I opened their eyes to command the printed page,
giving them power for a world against them.
Our game plan challenged their challenges.
Encouragement reinforcement, praise
The Dontes. Keyonnes, Jerrods, Terrells, Jarrells,
To dream, to have a dream
They are grown men now.
Their memories are mildly,
grateful.
They are the ones who have power.
I, the needy, old woman.
Large men, small men- with money
always divinely placed directly behind me in check out
when I must put a chicken back.
They just casually say, “Put it with my stuff.”
They know me not.
Yet, they know something.
They are the ones now with a wad.
When I have insufficient funds
a young voice directly behind me says,
“I got it” brandishing a large green wad.
I say, “I only need 20 cents.
But the wad pays for the whole thing.
“I say thank you my Brother. Be safe”
They are casual.
To them, a small gesture.
They have made it.
They jump to my rescue and say,” I got it.”
Please, “I got it,”
as if pulling the shades down in the classroom.
They know something.
They are angels.
Unaware.
My karmic gifts.
Grown successful men.
My Brother-Keepers.
I pray for them.
my sons.
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