At Black Expo, we locked
in the determination of high
school needs. Names exchanged,
sweaty mitts gripped
in the sweat of mitts. A peck
or two roughed hastily
by the phone booths.
Would-be mack daddies eyeing
my style from the walls
like welfare kids sweating
the Swanson’s truck.
Then I saw her right leg:
S-A-N-C-H-O etched
into skin below the knee.
The same place a tube sock
stripe would be. Sancho,
thugging in 2-5, the most
feared gang in Indianapolis.
She told me: I used a nail
file. The next time I ran
into her, I was home visiting.
I almost recognized her face,
but the leg inscription
tipped me off. The letters
were a little uneven because
she’d lost weight, but they
still spelled the same
dude’s name in English.

My first basketball court was old skool
before anyone used the “k,” like reverse
pivots or box outs. When some kid
got paralyzed after M&M jammed

a broken bottle into his back, HUD paved
over the free throw lane. They built
a clubhouse with big windows
and pay foosball because a good clubhouse

with games can make HUD housing
look less HUD. The new romper room
didn’t change the explanations blind Pearl’s
daughter had for her already inflating belly:

Yeah, this M&M’s kid. Girl, he don’t
melt in the hand. He melt someplace else.