remember back when
we messed up and
did somethin' wrong. . .
or thought about it,
that the neighbors would
chastise us first and
word would travel all over
the 'hood so fast that
we actually felt guilt
stronger than the heartbeat
that stuck in our throat
for having gotten caught?

remember back when
we double dog dared
to go into the forbidden
yard of ol' man Jackson
and pick the knarly granny smiths
off his apple tree because
he was too slow to catch us,
and we'd get caught again
because the neighbors told
on us, and mama met us at the
back door. . . with a switch
that wouldn't kill us but
showed she cared enough
to love us with that
sho nuff, good enuff
tuff luv made from scratch?

remember the time we'd play
"tag" and
"it" and
"chinese jump rope"
in the street and had
sense enough to move
when we saw a car coming
from two blocks away,
and never hardly was a
police car seen because
we all took care of
and looked out for
each other?

remember the time when
back in '68 that everybody,
even the white folk who didn't
speak to your skinny black
shadow, may have thought
of you as a nigga but never
called you that ugly name,

(because they knew your Mama
and your Grandmama 'n'em)

but would still pay
their respects
to the late Dr. King, how
everyone asked "why" the same
way they asked "why did Jesus
deserve to die?"

and don't come off
innocent-like an' tell
me you don't remember
the time when you
sat down at the table,
all at the same time,
all praying the same prayer,
and if it was a Sunday after
evenin' service, we'd all go
crazy, ol' folk and young 'uns
alike, watching the Ed Sullivan show,
and croonin' "Yeah Yeah Yeah"
with the Beatles, and little
dark skinned Michael. . .

why, if y'all can't remember that,
then ya' didn't know what it was like
to be free on Halford Street.

© 2004 cynth’ya lewis reed.
All rights reserved Bring Back The Thrill