Gwendolyn Brooks
The Pool Players
Seven at the Golden Shovel
We real cool. We
left school. We
lurk late. We
strike straight .We
sing sin. We
thin gin. We
jazz June. We
die soon.
We got reebok pumps and jean jackets with public enemy patches.
Strutting to school tongues out like MJ, pointing and nodding at
Objects or people who would never have it. At lunch our cigarette smoke
Pushed its way through the barred windows into Ms. Mary’s office, resulting
In early departure; like we care. We didn’t and never will, even after one of
Us ends up behind some of those very same bars. David played one of his
Dad’s Hank Mobley albums, as we sat there another afternoon to do nothing.
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