Growing up a concrete angel, strapped
to the ground in cheap suspenders
pleasant to a mother’s eyes, how could I not be
terrified that they would snap one day?
Hurling me from this world to the next,
where suddenly I’m arrested
for abusing clouds, giving heaven
it’s first black eye.
This little boy’s heart melted like butter
as Mama’s fried theology sizzled
after the preacher’s last burning words
covered the black book in smoke.
A long time ago, it was my favorite.
I wore saddle oxford shoes
to keep my feet clean, but was quickly
redeemed by black patent leather
tapping my way into heaven’s ghetto
as if what mattered then
is what matters now.
I’m still afraid of heights.
