Not It

“Eenie Meanie Miney Moe Catch a Beanie by his toe” “Beanie? ” That’s right, “Beanie.” We never used that other word. That hateful word. Not in my neighborhood. In fact, I don’t remember hearing That other word, until perhaps Years later, probably from some adult But I do remember my friend Gerald In the second grade And I remember kids picking on him But I didn’t know why. It was never conscious in our house This racial thing, it wasn’t handed down So I didn’t see it The color of his skin The blue-black mystery of who he was He was just my friend. So when Detroit exploded in ‘67 (A man named King was killed in ‘68) The burning and the flames spreading From block to block In our comfortable suburb, people were nervous And the little kids on the corner were whispering “They’re coming to get us.” “They’re coming to get us.” I hid in a closet In an upstairs room, underneath the shoes Pairs and pairs of old shoes, grown-up shoes “Why did they want me? ” “What did I do? ” “Eenie Meanie Miney Moe If he hollers, let him go Eenie Meanie Miney Moe.” Note: This poem is based on true events surrounding the Detroit Riots of 1967. (Previously published in The Oracular Tree, Feb.2003)