Poem #22: The Visitors

A gate-keeper at our basketball game,
I’m charged with distinguishing their fans
from ours. Theirs sport ties, khakis, bouncy
pony-tails, pricey watches, salon cuts,
and seem leery of their parking spots.
They hand over their five dollars to me
like charity, and I direct them to their side
of the gym. Their team stretches in the hallway,
snickering at the dated paintings on the walls.
I look away. They’re just teenagers, someone’s
sons. Our boys—both black and African—circle
in the gym to pass the ball between one another,
and even though I know some of these boys
by name from class or the halls, I visualize
a native ritual of trust and instinct.

We lose the game: 49, 53, but like a consolation,
one parent stops as he’s leaving to tell me
how impressed he was when he entered the school.
One student opened the door for him, another
gave him directions to the gym, and a third
showed him which door to use. I smile, want
to say, Is it so surprising? But just say thank you,
and am reminded of what I already know:
these are good kids at this school.

The next day, in the office, I learn how two
of the visitor parents’ cars were broken into
the night before—perhaps a student,
perhaps someone from the neighborhood.
GPS, electronics, and some loose change
stolen, windows smashed, leaving bits
of glass sparkling like broken promises
in the parking lot for everyone to see.