Hoodie Regrets

October 3, 2018

for Trayvon Martin


I get up early

and dress,

while momma snores


her breaths,

cotton falling from the moon.

I barely chew my cornflakes

as I get my jacket,


the scent of love and solace

raising me to be a man,

tall and firm in my hoodie and ripped Gap denim.


I walk down the street,

erect and open,

in a world that is mine,

remembering that momma

told me last night

after dinner

that I looked just like my daddy;

and that was a good thing.


I get to school,

people pushing


tossing their legacies

to and fro,

in Jordan’s and True Religion’s,

tarnished with project infirmities,

hiding in their backpacks.


I am my mother’s son,

I never belonged here.


I walk to class,

the officer stops me

before I reach

room 308, and

pats my pockets.

I take off my shoes

and shake,

proving to him

that there isn’t any residue

of hatred

from slavery or war

or the time my daddy was

arrested for trespassing

in his own home.


I dust myself off

and go to class

thinking: “maybe I shouldn’t have worn a hoodie.”


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