Lost One

I heard a boy riding a motorbike around the block today.  I heard him before I saw him. My heart stopped. The angry purring of the motor sounded just like the motor scooter you used to ride around the 'hood.

Inevitably the sound of your motion around the block was followed by the ringing of my doorbell.  You'd be greeted by my smile, my mom's lecture on why you should wear a helmet, and dad's homecooking.  

Years later when we were older and out of touch, you'd always stop abruptly in the middle of the street to honk and wave me down, flash your big, bashful smile and then continue on your way.  Drop in on holidays to check in on the fam.  My best friend knew you as "scraper boy" because as we grew up, you grew into the obsessions and fancies of the hood.

I miss you.  The sound of youthful joy on a motorized vehicle, tooling around the block like it's a job, will always squeeze at my heart.  To me that sound means you, our adolescence, your premature departure from this physical world.  The future you never had and the past we always will.

I remember the motor. The smiles. The young loves we processed together, walking my dogs and wishing to be growner.

The Bourgie Train-riding hood girl's dilemma

I want a code-switcher

a brunch-going hood-dweller.

I want it all.

I want a wide wrap-around porch, 

built-in bookshelves and community

love in the midst of the grimy and gully.

I want someone who will kayak and 

camp with me

work a room like nobody's business

and stroll the streets with the smarts

that only come from living, learning,

knowing out of necessity.

I want the one who loves tats and 

pits

who would look just as at home in

a scraper as a BMW.

I want the one who knows the 

ice cream truck sells other things

and knows how to open the hydrant

for the kids (and the free carwash).

I want the one who loves museums 

and reads ravenously.

I want the one who flosses teeth

meticulously and loves Cheese Doodles.

Who drinks mint tea and meditates

and knows that Duct tape and

WD-40 can fix it all.

The one who can dance merengue,

shake it like no one's watching

and identify the subtle undertones in

a glass of rich red wine.

Because I know a few of us, I tend to think we're more common than we are.  There's no escaping the fact that I'm on the bourgie train. Or that I come from where I come from. So many things.