Keith is a neighbor of ours who comes over once every other week or so to talk and sing in our kitchen. He’s a 50-something year old African American man, about my size, with the humor of a class clown the voice of a choir boy who can’t hit the low notes yet. The Jackson Five are his favorite, but occasionally he throws in some original tunes. He usually doesn’t take us up on our offers to dine with us, so I thought this special instance merited a poem.
Keith came tonight and stayed
For dinner.
He sang us a clue
When I asked from where he hailed,
He held
The napkin over his mouth –
His momma said don’t talk with
It open.
I’s born in a dump…
Momma died and daddy got drunk
We smiled
And said we knew not the tune.
All his sing songs sound the same,
High-pitched
Swaying, head nodding.
In
Hometown
Of the
He sings those boys on repeat.
Toothless
Eyes squinted, soul deep.
Adolescent soprano
Squeezes out
Against our kitchen door frame.
