7th Grade Reading

Block Day Poems

Ode to Pablo's Tennis Shoes by Gary Soto

They wait under Pablos bed,

Rain-beaten, sun-beaten,

A scuff of green

At their tips

5 From when he fell

In the school yard.

He fell leaping for a football

That sailed his way.

But Pablo fell and got up,

10 Green on his shoes,

With the football

Out of reach. (end of stanza 1)*

Now its night. (start of stanza 2)*

Pablo is in bed listening

15 To his mother laughing

To the Mexican novelas on TV.

His shoes, twin pets

That snuggle his toes,

Are under the bed.

20 He should have bathed,

But he didnt.

(Dirt rolls from his palm,

Blades of grass

Tumble from his hair.)

25 He wants to be

Like his shoes,

A little dirty

From the road,

A little worn

30 From racing to the drinking fountain

A hundred times in one day.

It takes water

To make him go,

And his shoes to get him

35 There. He loves his shoes,

Cloth like a sail,

Rubber like

A lifeboat on rough sea.

Pablo is tired,

40 Sinking into the mattress.

His eyes sting from

Grass and long words in books.

He needs eight hours

Of sleep
45 To cool his shoes,

The tongues hanging

Out, exhausted.

Race Politics by Luis J. Rodriguez

1 My brother and I shopping for la jefita

decided to get the good food

over on the other side of the tracks.

2 We dared each other.

Laughed a little.

Thought about it.

Said, whats the big deal.

Thought about that.

Decided we were men.

not boys.

Decided we should go wherever

we damn wanted to.

3 Oh, my brother now he was bad

Tough dude. Afraid of nothing.

I was afraid of him.

4 So there we go,

climbing over

the iron and wood ties,

over discarded sofas and bent-up market carts,

into a place called South Gate

all white. All-American.

5 We entered the forbidden

narrow line of hate,

imposed,

transposed,

supposed,

a line of power/powerlessness

full of meaning,

meaning nothing

those little lines that crisscross

the abdomen of this land,

that strangle you

in your days, in your nights.

When you dream.

6 There we were, two Mexicans,

six and nine from Watts, no less.

Oh, this was plenty reason

to hate us.

7 Plenty reason to run up behind us.

Five teenagers on bikes.

Plenty reason to knock

the groceries out from our arms

a splattering heap of soup

cans, bread and candy.

8 Plenty of reason to hold me down

on the hot asphalt; melted gum

and chips of broken

beer bottle on my lips and cheek.

9 Plenty reason to get my brother

by the throat, taking turns

punching him in the face,

cutting his lower lip,

punching, him vomiting.

10 Punching until swollen and dark blue

he slid from their grasp

like a rotten banana from its peeling.

When they had enough, they threw us back,

back to Watts, its towers shiny

across the orange-red sky.

11 My brother then forced me

to promise not to tell anybody

how he cried.

He forced me to swear to God,

to Jesus Christ, to our long-dead

Indian Grandmother

keepers of our meddling souls