“Why Am I Not Surprised?”

Why Am I Not Surprised?

He scrambles across the street after school
like a jockey at the bell.
He dodges screaming traffic
a fearless Don Quixote.
Hair flying
pants slipping
hat-on-backwards
fist-grabbing britches below his butt
fashion compromising comfort.
Don pulls his car next to mine
inviting a race to the finish.
Booming, straining
a regular James Dean.
Hack-hacking, and scratching
he monkeys the noise on his radio:
meaningless, beat-assured, dark gibberish.

Was ever a new generation whose act
might mimic the best?
Honor and want to be like the rest?
Oh, Dulcinea, No!
Don also dreams of glory
in his mad and dread-locked world.
It’s not surprising…
Not at all.