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Sitting Indian Style


Sitting Indian Style

A porch in the front –
near roses,
near metal milk crates

above colored slate
from Vermont –
is where a child sits
Indian Style,

on top of pieces of uneven
wood – 
warped wood – paint
peeling – a dull

shade of gray
A porch where two
doors – lead to
two families living

in a city – on a corner
lot – a city filled
with children who
played in streets and alleyways

As a child watched
from her front porch – she
would smile if a friend

walked by –
Indian Style – her Aunt
told her,
“That just isn’t ladylike.”

She smiled at her Aunt, and
smiled at a friend who never
smiled back – and the next time she
smiled, and the next –

never did she glance her way –
Her mother told her,
“find another friend,
friends don’t ignore a friend.”

Ignore, what is ignore?
A big word when all
they taught us in school was
“See Jack run, run Jack run.”

But, soon, a little girl would hide near
her house – near a green bush-covered

with red beans, they once shared – now

out of sight until she walked by 
the porch –
scuffing her feet across cracked
cement – looking straight ahead.

Her legs crossed, she sat 
Indian Style
picking at pieces of wood –

she sucked on a sliver

a smile on her face fades, and
a stray tear rolled down her- right cheek
caught at the edge of her lip
on the right – she smiled as
teardrops fell, scooting her body

to the right, without
standing – to the right
toward a metal milk

box – then, she opened the lid,  
inside a milk box her

paper dolls were waiting –
It was then she knew
her friends – they smiled back.

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