In 36 years, I barely spared a word
About my days in Ypsilanti,
Known chiefly for giving us Iggy Pop
And an obscure pioneer in continental drift.
I was watching the 9 o’clock news
With my father in our living room,
As was the family habit. I was 9,
Eating a Baby Ruth in June
When a picture of Vincent Chin
Flashed onscreen with a discussion
Of murder, Japan and the Motor City.
My father said not to take it personally.
We were going to have a barbecue with
Our blue-collar neighbor on Saturday,
Once he was done at the Ford factory.
Our other neighbor across the way
With the tall bottle-blonde daughters
Was a Baptist preacher, fond of discussing
Pearl Harbor with me every other day,
Because I couldn’t tell him a thing about Laos.
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