(A Revision of) HOPE 5 MILES

by Joaquín Zihuatanejo, on hope

the last sign

I remember reading

before I pulled into the rest stop read

HOPE 5 MILES

to my left

three children

from three different families

play in a clearing

together

post oaks lean over them

as if to listen

I am taken back to June 1984

three dirt covered boys

each with skin

lighter or darker

than the next

walk along the MKT rail bed

in our thrift store shoes

singing hand-me-down blues

our city measured us

by the poverty

that hardened us

by our bronze skin—

we were too foolish

to know we were poor

and beautiful—

we measured ourselves

by single mothers

torn jeans

whispered curse words

secondhand dreams

and laughter

so much laughter

but never by the color of our skin

maybe hope

was closer than I thought