Wildfire
Sip This
When it stinks, stay
Geronimo’s hair
Oranges
Poetry Poem
Bronzeville by Night (1949)
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Losing Faith
Tones sounded and doors closed.
One more metro stop and she would leave.
He hated good-bye, sat watching, where she stood.
Bolder men would have said something, anything
but he, always thinking too much, would let her go.
She swayed to the shimmy of the train or
to the tune, echoing from her wired ears
“just a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit.”
Her sandstorm Middle Eastern eyes said nothing.
Naïve and pouting inside; she was always right.
The last car jolted to stop. As had been promised
she turned, without sight or sound, leapt to the platform.
He stared, at himself in windows, as she past.
Clouds in his eyes refused to let him cry
across the bridge and from an empty church.
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