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.