Chino

[edsiejka]

Chino

By Edmund Siejka

(from East Of Seventh, Local Gems Press publisher. Available on Amazon)


Waiting near a candy store
For something to happen
Chino pretended to be his idol
The 1950’s celluloid rebel
Marlon Brando.

While the film actor made thousands
The working class rebel of Second Avenue
Lived on cigarettes
And Coca Cola.

Chino wore a uniform
Black leather jacket
Dungarees
Black engineer boots
Hair combed in a long pompadour
Duck tail back
With enough grease
To lubricate a truck
And a faint hint of sideburns.

In real life
The boy’s name
Was Stefan Benedik
A crazy kid
Who wanted to be more American
Than the Americans
Where he lived
No one was quite sure
But everyone knew him
By his street name
Chino.

Dropping out of high school
Chino had no money
Defiant and bold
He was considered
A troublemaker.

A few nights before Christmas
Loud voices were heard coming from a nearby bar

“Get him” someone yelled
Chino jumped out of a ’49 Buick Roadmaster
That wasn’t his
The sound of running footsteps
Were heard
His body hitting the hard concrete
Struggling to get up
Someone grabbed him by the hair
Pushing his head back
Another voice called him a car thief
Fists followed and the kicks came
Someone’s hand was seen in the night going up
And coming down in a hurtful arc
The young rebel was left where he fell on the sidewalk.

Unexpectedly, it snowed that night
Whiteness gracefully falling from the sky
Showing no preference for the young or the old
The brave or the foolish
Covering everything
In a powdery blanket
That muffled the sounds of the city
And made the ugly and mundane
Look perfect and unspoiled.

In its own way
Nature took pity
On the lifeless boy
And draped his body in a white shroud
Of feathery snow
Protecting him from the curious
And all trespassers.

When the police came
There was a crowd
Jostling for a better view
Of what they could not see.

Holding her coat against the cold
Chino’s mother pointed a finger at the crowd
“It wasn’t you or you.
It was all of you who killed my son.”
There was no sound
No smart answers
Only an empty feeling
From the aimless onlookers.
Huddled under an iron gray sky.

A policeman,
Lines edging his tired face,
Stood unyielding
A club firmly held in his hand
Ordering the crowd to leave
Soon the street was as empty and quiet as before.

Only a few realized that
The fragile cord of life
For a misunderstood boy
Had been violently ended
During the season of forgiveness.

[saw]

just watched Rebel Without a Cause the other day, and this poem had the same feel

rebellion can often have tragic ends, but sometimes it just has to happen....good read