Clint Smith

It began with a game of two-hand touch, though such
administratively imposed regulations were quickly
forgotten as soon as the Isley Brothers record started
playing and the teachers two-stepped off into the distance.

Coach Lonnie turned toward the grill, spatula in hand,
ready to turn burgers into reprieve from subpar report
cards. We just called him Coach, although his large belly
belied the athletic prowess of his past. He flipped his

fleur-de-lis cap backwards and threw on an apron
that read, Always something good cookin’ in my kitchen.
I had just learned how to spell innuendo though I still
wasn’t sure what it meant. Later, The Hot Boys

were blasting through large Sony speakers that turned
everywhere within a 200-foot radius into unrepentant
celebration. Lil’ Wayne assuring us with brazen certainty
that the block indeed was hot, as even the most secure

of us heeded the warning to check the underside
of our feet. Ensuring the safety of our appendages,
we returned to the feast. Hot dog in one hand,
Kool-Aid in the other, all of us singularly committed

to getting our roll on. The girls danced in clusters,
becoming accustomed to the bourgeoning parabola
of their hips, learning the power they wielded over boys
who were dawdling amalgamations of awkward

and bravado. Prepubescent pick-up lines made
rejection quotidian and gave your boys ammunition
for weeks to come. Each crack helping us learn to love
the sound of one another’s laughter.