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 –
sitting
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.