he is the only white boy in lawndale
and who could blame him, searching
for a line of commerce that could save
his life? he starts hanging in the shadows
of our apartment building, pulling down
his pants and charging us a dime to look,
a quarter to touch. stubbed fingers, dingy,
pinkish, thumbing it. the slowly writhing
nub hooded and winking sly neon, here,
here, here, go on, touch it, go on be startled
by its whispered little rhumba, its soft
arrogance. the long line of wait, colored
and curious, snakes Washington street
with giggles electric, our one stomach
throbbing with this stupid magic. white boy
shifts from Ked to Ked, corporate bigwig
under the overhang, and if not for his
clipped command—Next. Next.—we would
not even notice him attached to the thing.
three dimes sweaty in my fist. i’m two
unraveled braids, grape bubble gum smash,
newly baptized into the wrong world.
i do not know the name of my immediate
future, wouldn’t recognize the hot snap
of the word cock, i don’t have a clue
to that thing’s unerring purpose. but ouch,
a vessel deep in me is already calling.
i move forward, impatient, my touch
outstretched for a stranger, blood money
straight from my hurt to his. still, i’m blue
with shame because i know I’m the only one:
he has to take my hand and guide it there.