Pigeon-Toed Dance

for Charles Roland Floyd

One day I invited Charles to come over.

We didn’t talk much. Watched cartoons, 

laughed, and wrestled on my bedroom rug.

Later, I found my piggy bank half-empty.

That was fourth grade with Ms. Conway,

the cowhide strap every student dreaded.

Too slow to learn, Charles was sent back

to second grade, where he dropped out.

His tongue was tied with square knots,

English that slurred and sounded foreign.

Couldn’t pronounce proper names, read 

or write, but always won in nickel tonk.

Had the rhythm of a white house party,

tripping on his tangled, pigeon-toed feet.

On Legion Field, he never got a handoff, 

a pass thrown or a tackle but he played.

Years later, he got a job nailing pallets. 

Cool, I thought. Charles making money, 

wearing new shoes, and putting coins 

toward cigarettes and cheap port wine 

those nights we rolled blunts, squatting 

on crates behind the white man’s store 

where black folks bought groceries.

Then, the break-in for a car CB radio 

that never played again. Alone, Charles

shot dead by a black cop. No memory 

of his face, only the Creole complexion

and fine curly hair, his palsy moves 

and speech, and that silly, jerky laugh

that seldom scatted with the beat, only 

a dear friend who, in all his brokenness,

was as human and loving as each of us.

Originally published in MockingHeart Review