Forever Flick
He was holding a football
when our eyes first met,
seeing beyond our years.
Catching the missile, flying, he was surprised.
We smiled.
We were only six.
His name was Flick.
That’s what his daddy called him--
when his daddy was around.
“We’ll go to school together, we’ll be friends.”
Flick was a dreamer!
We did become pals,
rendezvous after school
on the playground with other kids.
Derision, syllables of hate we dared not repeat,
the two of us, colors fade to black.
We were only nine.
It was difficult to be alone together, hide.
About two miles from where Flick lived,
we shared fishing line and worms, candy,
left over lunches, and water from a canteen,
stories, spirit, laughter, life.
We would take off our shirts when it was hot,
go skinny-dippin’ in the coal-black river.
The summers cooled too quickly.
We were just twelve.
We were not black.
We were not white.
Diaphanous!
We were only fifteen.
Time is now, yet gone, far away, returning.
Reunited – no handshake;
embraced – no fear.
We smiled.
We were only eighteen.
Drunk drivers are not color-blind.
I wish jurors were.
Neither sees much of anything.
We were only twenty-one.
Copyright ©
Mickey Grubb
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