Lineage

One of my fathers played stickball in Harlem.

This one never got a street-kid nickname.

Another scared well-dressed ladies into

crossing the street before he crossed their paths.

I'm told it was his boots or his brown skin.

A different father found friends stair-slackened:

addicts a boy couldn’t turn his gaze from.

One found god and never loved anyone.

Another played a dented sax, its keys

rusted pearly green underneath the pads.

#6 had his name called to enlist—

he didn't like that one bit. Another

kept a baby boy in tow. My favorite

stood before the wild and never came back.