Those five or six young guys <br />lunched on the stoop <br />that oven-hot summer night <br />whistled me over. Nice <br />and friendly. So, I stop. <br />MacDougal or Christopher <br />Street in chains of light. <br /> <br />A summer festival. Or some <br />saint's. I wasn't too far from <br />home, but not too bright <br />for a nigger, and not too dark. <br />I figured we were all <br />one, wop, nigger, jew, <br />besides, this wasn't Central Park. <br />I'm coming on too strong? You figure <br />right! They beat this yellow nigger <br />black and blue. <br /> <br />Yeah. During all this, scared <br />on case one used a knife, <br />I hung my olive-green, just-bought <br />sports coat on a fire plug. <br />I did nothing. They fought <br />each other, really. Life <br />gives them a few kcks, <br />that's all. The spades, the spicks. <br /> <br />My face smashed in, my bloddy mug <br />pouring, my olive-branch jacket saved <br />from cuts and tears, <br />I crawled four flights upstairs. <br />Sprawled in the gutter, I <br />remember a few watchers waved <br />loudly, and one kid's mother shouting <br />like 'Jackie' or 'Terry,' <br />'now that's enough!' <br />It's nothing really. <br />They don't get enough love. <br /> <br />You know they wouldn't kill <br />you. Just playing rough, <br />like young Americans will. <br />Still it taught me somthing <br />about love. If it's so tough, <br />forget it.<br /><br />Derek Walcott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blues/
