Maya, Maya ,we play our kind of.
Up in the air , a rarefied and thin.
Our both feet are up, torso stump.
We do not black ,brown of minds.

Back home our pony-tailed girls
Hopscotched four chalk squares.
God, how pony tails ding-donged!
May(a) I imagine you one of them.
I wait for dusk to hide your black.
Odd to see a black face in browns.

We old girls play ,bald and ribald.
Like you we believe we have won.
They think they have ,poor things.

(remembering Maya Angela’s poem Harlem Hopscotch)