Mr. Poitier Never Answered

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The older I become, the more I realize my parents were dreamers. Perhaps we all are. Maybe it's our dreams that keep our hearts beating faster. lmr

 


 
Young, girlish and completely 
ridiculous in her skin...
my mother, with her bubbly giggles
and brown-edged
sorrows would go
to the movies, and imagine
she was
Ruby Dee, in love
with Sidney Poitier.
 
In reality: she was just
a colored girl
devoted to daily chores,
her diaries...
demoted by society to
being              invisible...
while writing love notes to
Sidney P.  She'd waited oh-so long for
what would be
his cherished reply.  But sadly
Mr. Poitier never answered
her letters.
 
Meanwhile, my father
was a short, spark-plug of 
a humble man, and yet
far from  being
anyone's
stumblebum.
 
He'd worked and planned
and schemed and
paid in sweat and
waited so long for his
elegant two-car dream to arrive...
 
 
But those were only visions
                 sweeping past both their eyes
like boldly speeding Cadillacs do
inside a fast-paced city.
 
In slower moments,
I'd watch these two
upright afro'd American
silhouettes sitting quietly
within their perfect stillness,
like etchings upon the dark
canvas of my mind.   All the cries,
noises and sly animations
belonged to this cruel city.
 
This was the same
freakish city which
at one time blinked
and screamed,
mocked
and dismissed
its bronze, indigo
and still-life people.
 
Yet, they too, belonged here,
smiling their slowly
tarnished smiles...
 
 
in a world revolving 
around the trifles of stars,
the dreams of peons,
the sound of fast cars...
and all the sighs,
the blue moans...
and the easy glides of
giggling girls
 
in love with
 
fantasy.
 

 
 
 
 
copyright © 2017 by L.M. Ross
 
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