Massachusetts Avenue (walk with me, vol. 4)

Another story-poem about a place in Boston. In between Melnea Cass Boulevard and Huntington Avenue, Mel King's old South End struggles against its colonizers.

Elders apologize for inconveniencing me on my way:

My fault king—peace and blessings/

/I’m so sorry, do you have a second? Could you help me carry these groceries upstairs?/

/excuse me: spare any change?

Before they welcome me into their heart, 
allow me to step into their memory,
hold a dap and a hug, hand to hearth.

A mother, an older brother, a grandfather grab my shoulder,
lean into my ear, 
crack me a smile,
my eyes light up.
Cabo Verde, Ghana, and Roxbury greet me with open arms,
Etopya, Chicago, Cleveland grip them back.

I carry bags up to the top of Ghana's five-story brownstone walk-up, 
move my ass to make room for Cabo Verde's old-timer jacket and bottles on public transit,
take a tenner out of my wallet at the bus stop to slide to Roxbury, mistakable for  now-passed patriarchs of my own kin I've only seen photos of;
clear my ears with Wally's Jasm,
reminisce by the one-time home of the Kings,
follow Shabazz's (once Little's) big footsteps.

Listen and give deference to Cabo Verde’s recollection and reflection, congratulate his age, receive his caution;
Adamantly refuse payment from Ghana for simply carrying my weight as her younger in her community 
(a five is forced through fingers into palm anyway, God bless you);
Clap Roxbury on his back and wish him well on his way.

Hail the 1 the rest of my trajectory through recolonized territory
towards the death machine that brought me here.

On the bus, Cabo Verde asks me, do you want to know the secret to happiness? 
I nod.
Guess.

“Discipline?”


He pauses, chuckles; 

"Laughter."