The poet was nationally recognized for a lifetime's worth of writings.
Just kidding. Lookee here, hands like rocks.
My hands work okay, but don’t you talk about
that fellow’s head Sully broke a beer bottle on
and killed him dead. At a wedding is what I heard,
he had serious drink in him, that’s the key to the city.
Why he talked so much to you, I don’t know,
he don’t talk much to me or nobody. Talked to you
because, bet on it, he knew you couldn’t just get up
and walk away. You’re a lucky cripple, bet that one.
He’d cut anybody’s throat for a nickel and a smile.
Paris was beautiful and I was young,
a GI who’d never even left Philly,
but we who lived to see it were alive,
and like those girls in cotton shifts
the breeze pawed, I wanted to paw…
You didn’t have to touch to know
how you’d always remember them.
But the camps, our first look inside,
Being Black: It's not the skin color