Post 1

It was a greyhound back of the bus love story.
His name was DeVon. Tall, lithe, black as night.
He was a sad boy, starry-eyed but not sorry.
He said come on, balled and cried with de-light.

We rode through Louisiana, Mississippi, Texas.
Held hands, whispered stories, kissed and…
chewed new manna (bread), a hot wet mess
clawed red, bled grey, lisped then…

said goodbye. He stood still, she moved on
to Los Angeles, Portland, Seattle
we didn’t cry, he’d stay out of jail, she’d fawn
over new black boys, who’d make her teeth rattle.

Love stories, roaring twenties, reminisced in forties
ghost stories, now out of the gene pool, middle-age worries.

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