Irony of poetry written May 25th before losing my uncle

i flow like I'm from another era
rosary that grew in concrete.
Catholic school education
who met Mary's son
at sanctified church
windy city held me
caressed me
while
teaching me to navigate
puzzles and mazes in the streets
we didn't speak unless spoken to.
got my cool there,
like a young Don Cornelius
heard Sam Cooke when Aunt Lou
cleaned every Saturday
my chage still coming
read books from Uncle Clarence's library
that's why my eyes see color.