I beat the knuckled skin
so they prance, trip, sway
round the musty room.
My eyes follow the easy
runs of two negro children,
take time from their feet.
Asian kids glide, balance
on bellies, boys hunch
shoulders, pull themselves
along while a lone white
child pecks the air, lurches,
head leading then halts
to stare, mad with drumming.
His eyes say, Too fast; I stop.
Our story comes to circle us,
their eyes draw words, drink
pictures, still drum echoing.
From violated streets they teach
my tonque to allow the flow,
share the shivering drum.
ALSO FROM
Poetry Wales,Volume 26,No 4
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