Alameda Street

for Deshawn, Eric, Dallas, Jerome & Lerone We brown boys play stick games, say nicknames like B IG D, E VIL E; and conjure Knievel with jigsawed dirt bikes and sewer curbs for asphalt launch pads. We all sweat to know flight for just a minute. We brown boys, hair all knaps, wear ballcaps’ broken brims. Broken rims from hungry slamdunks, pro-ball pipe dreams over ice cream man’s “Pop Goes the Weasel.” We all hunt change from cords’, Bermudas and mamas. We brown boys— smack talking slap boxing— stay bragging and bagging, drinking summer from hoses and water bomb barrages. We throw rocks at garages making no dents. We all just trying to leave a mark.