Saturday, July 3, 2010

Starscream for Bumblebee

by Ray Succre

People moved about those nooks of residence with an excellent speed,
though most were rare to stop, to talk or trade or haunt the place.
Each new location to me was for new people soon out of sight,
led into nonexistence when I’d leave.

There was always the presence of boxes, packed, and a parent
looking over a map for the next place.
There was always the one way of leaving, no matter how you arrived.

My first childhood friend:
“Hey you, black kid,” I called across the parking lot.
“Fuck you,” he said.
“You have any Transformers?”
“Wanna trade?”
“Maybe. What do you have?”
About a dozen. In a toybox. My room of the month.
We went in with an excellent speed.
I knew him ten minutes and was cured of being racist.
He traded Starscream for Bumblebee.
It was just one place. One more kid. One month in a dozen,
over the barter of myth and plastic.

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