For Trayvon Martin by Reuben Jackson

Instead of sleeping—
I walk with him from the store.
No Skittles, thank you.
We do not talk much—
Sneakers crossing the courtyard.
Humid Southern night.
We shake hands and hug—
Ancient, stoic tenderness.
I nod to the moon.
I’m so old school—
I hang till the latch clicks like.
An unloaded gun.

April 1975 By Reuben Jackson

Should my black
Flatlander eyes
Lock on the other
In the General Store?
The first I’ve seen
Since what seems like.…
I can’t count that high
Do I pretend I don’t see
Other people
pretending not to see us?
Two brothers
And peanut butter,
In Northern New England,
Is revolution
On a Sunday