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streams of mud
streams of mud
we played in shallow streams of muck
where there was no black, no white
we were all mud-packed kids
crusty-skinned little boys who knew the sludge would wash away
when we dipped into the stream
and splashed one another
to reveal brown skin or pink
touch football followed the mud spackling
on a grass field with stone markers
and oak trees with vertical goalposts
and horizontal branches that taught us about math
then converted back to branches
after each game, when the birds flew away
no one could tape the bladder of our football
better than charlie d
and duct tape was invented to hold it inside the ripped up
plastic that we wished was pigskin
franklin always knew when the grown-ups were coming
and although it was frowned upon
we still played together every week
his brown skin busting against mine
and charlie’s bumping into and crushing joey’s
the grown-ups tried to squeeze the ‘colored boys’ out of our minds
and put in memories of blue skies
and clear streams, plush fields with colorful flowers
and oak trees older than jesus
turns out i had room for both
and charlie d and franklin taught me what the adults couldn’t
streams and flowers, blue skies and brown boys
oak trees and birds
a touchdown is still six points
and we never went for the extra point
tolbert
Copyright ©
wayne tolbert
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