© 2004  Daniela Buccilli

Across the fast track highway

            From my brother's apartment,

Trees of the same generation

            Line a bike lane

In predictable scatter.

Walking in hippie dress,

            I ask the black couple

In royal American garb

            Beside the Schwinn ten speeds

If there are benches along the trail.

Yes, but none shaded, the bare-

            chested cyclist said.  He wears his

Shirt draped around his head

            Like a sheik.

I make sure to stare

            Only at the woman,

Watching the lobster clasp

Of her two inch yellow gold necklace

Slip into the dip in her collarbone.

When I smile, I remember

My teeth, step behind them quickly,

            And thank them. 

Do black women or Indian women

            Hate a smiley white woman.

I can't stop the smiling—

I'm smiling myself to death—

Like the time in '87 when Shantelle

            Recited my example poem to

Antwone in glowing mockery.

            I felt a punch to the lung,

But I kept smiling.

While I was listening to the Beatles,

            Three black kids carrying crates

Full of chocolate candy bars

            For $4.50 each

Knocked on the apartment door.

I noticed one's uncombed African        

            Carpethead.  Now feeling guilty

For noticing such a difference

            I buy the chocolate.

Next time I walk the bike trail

            I'll concentrate on the circles

Around every trunk of each 25 year old tree.

            A mini-race track, a X-mas train set.

Like ripples around a dropped dream.

            Concentric circles

In dusty black on the tar trail.

            Lawn mower, my engineer brother

Explains. Perhaps it is to avoid

Backing up the machine

That makes the groundkeeper drive in circles.

All work is copyrighted property of Daniela Buccilli.

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