Freedom was the weekend

Freedom was the weekend -
life after living dead:
living in line,
facing forward,
but unable to see where the hell we were going.

The same black hands struggling to tell time
figured it out at the same time everyday,
picking the combination to the lock
that opened the gates we rushed.

A blue sky pulled us outside,
teasing us with memories of running ‘round naked,
begging us to sprout wings
and see the world.

A black orchestra of labored breath
was finally released,
flooding our parks with laughter,
conversation and music.

Our noses widened to that smell
caked in the bottom of lawnmowers,
the smell of sun cooked concrete,
and gas stations.

Home didn’t hurry youth.
We took our time to get there,
looking for the ice cream truck,
ready to see the world we missed all week.

Love was measured
in how many minutes it took
to get where we could find it.

Anticipation wasn’t a place
but a smile,
a hand to hold,
the promise of a kiss.

And, on most days,
folk could still find heaven in
a cold beer,
watermelon
and a grill.

©05.19.2018 ebn