Before my shift on New Year's Eve, / I slicked my hair back, / traveled the night with my men / maintaining our hard faces / at the girls miniskirted, stumbling / and immune to the cold.

Basquiat’s on the back steps with my niece / helping her to draw a picture of us all, / tossing back gray dreadlocks as they fall / into his eyes. My Sister argues politics / with Martin and Coretta in the back yard / over ribs – Romare Bearden’s cooking – / Malcolm puts his two cents in between / bites of peas and rice.