I used to bring them donuts
On Sunday mornings.
They lived two doors up
From me.
They were good neighbors.
On Sundays
I’d go to the bakery
Or the farmer’s market
And buy donuts
Or dense bread pudding
From the Austrian baker
Thick with custard
Cinnamon
And raisins.
If any of it made it back home with me
I’d make a visit
To my neighbors.
I was a white punk
Living in a black ghetto
On St. Mary’s Place.
I enjoyed the time
I spent walking up their
Brick steps
In heavy biker boots
Mohawk or shaved head.
Leather
Metal
And denim
Knocking on their door
And yelling
“Buddy!”
“Charles!”
And seeing Buddy’s
Or Charle’s
Big pearly grin
Through dark skin
As they opened the door
And exclaimed
“Ted!”
Or
“Taaaaaaiiiiiiiiiidddddd!!!”
Followed by haughty
Grounds of the earth
Laughter.
In return
As treaty
They would give me
Hella Soul Food
That they had cooked.
Pig’s tails
Collards
Beans
Fried Chicken
Cabbage and trotters.
I would graciously
Take them home
And later tell them
How good they were.
Lying...
Because
At the time
I was a vegetarian
And actually gave all of that food away
To all of my punk rock friends...
Who were appreciative.
And while I might’ve lied
About that...
I visited Buddie and Charle's
For the laughs and conversation.
They were two black men
In their sixties living together
For a long time.
They told me they were brothers.
I had a hard time believing that.
I suspected otherwise.
They had two different last names.
But they grew up in the ghetto
And had to make such a story up
As to protect themselves.
I wasn’t going to blow their cover.
Instead
We accepted the lies offered
To each of us.
And ate donuts
Or bread pudding
On Sundays
And enjoyed our differences
And the fact
That through
A few brick walls
We could still be friends
And keep secrets.
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