Hard Roads to Hoe, a poem.

Three times in my life,
someone has tried to mug me,
only once did they take my money….

In ’88 I met an old friend from
elementary school,
whom after gaining my trust,
relieved of my wallet and
money, and ripping my favorite
black turtle neck.

I called the police who made
a report,
then promptly did nothing.

Years later at night
I walked those same streets,
trying to pick up dates.

But after hours of walking,
no dates
my legs cold wearing
my daisy dukes.
I came home cold and
lonely.

There used to be more gay bars,
but over the years they
closed them all,
making the neighborhoods
pretty.

Now, most gay folks
live outside of their
closets,
but the gay bars have moved
to the suburbs,
where few black people go.

I don’t miss that wallet or cash,
but I miss my bars and all
my friends whom have passed
from the plague.