Every Nigger's Son
by Brennan Beebe
He felt naked that day,
the rain would not come
in great relentless torrents,
to wash away an image on urban streets,
where the slate gray postal monolith loomed.
He saw no beauty in architecture then.
Youth does not withhold images from memory.
Only the sound of fists at full extension
a vague drone now
like the electricity buzz at night.
Even within the confines of that great motoring station wagon,
seat belt tucked in the passenger seat,
an old Paul Simon tune
lightly dimmed on the radio.
Words were heard like voices,
of southern plantation owners in all confederate glory.
The round man with the awkward swagger,
when youth did not know the depravity of drunken sentiments.
Eyes that only say soiled denim
and the odd cap with foreshortened brim,
where stars lingered along bars
moments short of action over the witless brow.
He did not understand father's raging fists then.