60 1963 It was the pair of light blue pants from Sears that smelled like petroleum, the pennies the white boys threw at us to see if we were really monkeys and would pick them up, the long bus ride home to our side of things with people saying nigger that September after Dr. King marched to Washington, after our Sunday picnics in parks where there seemed to be no war, the clouds perfect rolls of baby blue and white through the trees, over the crabs and chicken and pies that autumn it began it seemed, the feelings that were memories, the flying out of things, soaring above the earth without my body, a premature angel as I knew them, except I was black in the mirrors, black of blackness that left me dizzy on the playground, pennies all around me, tap dancing to music from pain shooting through me from the memories of being used like a toy by faces now masks, demons far more evil than little white boys. ...