SALAZAR INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY
ALUMNI HOMECOMING & GRAND REUNION JUNE 24, 1998

What with it?
Useless, time I spend instead on,
ummm, let's see, I say,
batting my sight between paper
and the Jazz-Bulls Finals on Sony,
Cinemascope it says.
What, and see the guy who yelled sissy
'coz I can't throw ball,
let him call me still?
Or meet the girl, my goal at sixteen,
find out she has rounded, kid in tow?
'Drather sit and watch things happen.
Tryin' be rough smackin' palm to fist
as Jordan whoops a shot.
Damn guy, now, why can't he lose?
Cool frat here, rootin' for Jazz,
clappin' with everybody. Hey,
more beer, this table.
Right this minute things are gettin'
hot, urgent like Pilsen frothin'
at the mouth. So, who gives a hoot
about homecomings? Those yearbook years
in mold-lidded lockers.
Key got lost around somewhere.
Oh, I remember Ian the giant, how
he scooped air, big hands.
Heard he's got a band now.
Hey - no shit - who's that Bulls man
snatchin' a throw? Damn that orange-headed
dodo, s'pposed to be we're up one shot.
It's a thrilling game I'm tellin'
and keep away that paper.
Who cares about that?

And who cares about later,
when I'd slid out slinking at game's end
'coz my team lost and Jordan's still king?
That when I go home, I unsee the distance,
knowing the only way back.
To the soft grating of wood underfoot,
up the stairs, the grains I swear
matching the mapped ridges
of each of my soles.
To the bed creaking for my weight,
the walls beside it standing smug with faith.
Later, I'd see what the grandmother's
been up to lately.
The half-spilled brightness
from her room would beckon
like the cupboards of long ago.
Looking in, I'd jump a breath
like I've been caught stealing those bukhayo she used to round into little balls.
She sleeps with a doll nowadays,
my sister's, worn and black-streaked.
Its smoothness smothered under grime
and her thick flab of knotted skin.
When she turns I'd see her eyes
open like a newborn's throat.
Her lips would break in an attempt,
yet not succeeding, to end up looking
like a smile turned down -
her joy, I suppose,
with nothing to come home to.

bukhayo - coconut candies

John biton
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