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Omari Straker

I stood in the hallway, 7 days before class in our freshman year. “What experiences will pass,” I wondered, “now that I’m here?” My parents dropped me off and waved goodbye, that’s when several black people started walking on by. They were leaving an unknown friend, we’d be hanging out shortly, just around the bend. Our meeting would be worth it, but racial divides had me nervous.

We introduced, shook hands. Video games were the first things we planned. Time to get my shit rocked in Smash, on my computer we had our first laggy bash. It took you no time to read me, and less time to beat me. I tried to improve game after game, find my center and be one with it. …But only got served to the point of punishment.

We often disagreed. I never acquiesced. Your views were important, greater than the rest. Why did I pick on You about the things you say? Because you’re better than the pejorative: “Man, that’s gay.”

Once upon a time, you wouldn’t let me call you Omari-kun, but now you expect a better poem all-too-soon. Oh, whatever Oball, you’re in luck, just as long as you recall: Omarikong sux.

Back to the tale. Sophomore year was sad. Problems were ballooning: bigger and bad. I said do whatever, you’d be gone now. No more material to write this song now. You did leave for a little while… pulled away: temporary trial.

Hospitals are anything but nice. I’ve slept in them once more than thrice. Any way, here’s something where we might agree, this is a story of you, not a story of me.

We played more games, and got to win Catan. Remember the summer bouts with our friend Wunyin? Little did we know board games would bring us together, their conversations would make us closer than ever.

We went to our professional lives and separated for years, during which you enjoyed some regular beers. We both kept a weakness to half of our peers, and wanted women as they plagued through our fears.

Montebank. Maybe we both have that one card to thank. You beat me in our first game of Goko online, now it’s a vehicle to talk all the time. Our latest news, women foreboding, our endeavors, our careers, and conceptions in coding.

Then you even came to visit, but the circumstances were unfortunately less than exquisite. I was over-tired, under-medicated and overly-wired. I knew that train would crash, and it would be our last day, last smash. It was totally contrived, you needed to drive.

Omari-kun, we stand as paragons today. Is this poem too soon? What can I say?

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