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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