the first I knew was the West Indians
saying Laad! Laad! and laughing
it was a hot one and folk (I heard)
were sleeping out on Peckham Rye
and when each sweat-till-you’re-dry
afternoon swung away to evening
and got redder in the way the light
hit things
there were these lines
of little black men slanting across
the pavement antlers at present-arms
on some scuttling mission followed
by littler beetles
a couple of hard boys
leered and crunched them and we
threw stones and they said fuck off
and we know where you fucking live
but we threw more stones and then
just watched those little black men
crossing and crossing the pavement
then it rained dollops like half-crowns
making that sour smell only thin flags
of concrete can make
and the half-crowns made
brown leopard-spots on the grey dust
and we went inside
the sweat-till-you’re-dry weather
went away and though I looked
on every half-sunny day
so did those little black men
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
I can just see you throwing stones, sweating mad at those boys...my God, this is a fabulous write. Thank you so much, my little rebel friend 
