California

At seven I was a forty-two year old man

who held on to dreams, because he had

so much to hold onto. My father taught me

to believe in my dreams, but more importantly

I taught myself to believe in myself,

because sometimes your dreams

can be stolen from you. I was alone.

I was only seven. I had stood proper and direct until midnight.

I thought they were the sounds of ballons exploding. I

heard them scream break his thumb. I heard another, after a man, a woman

at the podium asking for a doctor. I saw the crowd

walking around in dismay. Someone who would

take away the eyes of Bobby Kennedy. I went to my mother’s room

and said that Mr. Kennedy had been killed. She told me that that had

happened a long time ago. I said no…. the other one.