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