I was sixteen, and darkness had fallen
and we’re riding our bikes.

The boys I’m riding with
turn onto 95th street
and I follow
even though we’re headed towards
a white neighborhood.

I figured we were going to turn around
as the first set of railroad tracks
pass under my wheels
I feel fear
creeping over me.

I tell them we should turn
around.
They only laugh
and pedal faster.

I sure as hell
don’t want to go forward
but can’t go back
by myself.

So I plunge into the night
behind the fools on wheels
as we rattle over the
second set of tracks
I know we’ve gone
way too far.

Cars swerve close
horns blaring
laughter in the voices
of my friends
(years before extreme sports)-

as the high-beams light on
our backs
and I see my shadow
splattered
on the ground
in front of me.

They laugh as windows
are rolled down
curses are flung
along with pieces of garbage
at us.

My nerves jangle
as cars slow down
then pass with a shout of
“NIGGERRRRS!”
I’m not ashamed to admit
that on that dark
summer’s night
my nut-sack clenched up
like a peach pit
and shoved my testicles
up into my guts.

Along we rode
another mile
I’d given up on trying to say
anything
their bicycles were bigger
and they were stronger.
They slowly began to pull
away.

I followed as they
turned right on Pulaski
where blacks could get mobbed
and beaten
in broad daylight.
I wished for a street
without so many lights.

I felt like a cockroach on a wedding cake.
The cars hooted and honked
and swerved at us
like mad bulls.

The passengers cursed
and spat and screamed.
I couldn’t even sweat.

We turned right on 87th street
and headed back east
back towards our mixed neighborhood.

They really began to pump
leaving me further
and further
behind.

My heart raced.
A wheeze rattled through my lungs
and I cursed them all.

As we reached Western Avenue
I broke away from them
and rode home
their laughter
pelting dryly
against my back.