Wednesday, December 22, 2010



Come find me hacking
through matted language,
hands wrinkled from routing
so many mistaken destinations
defined by dictionaries and numbers.

I walk without turning.
I scarcely have a head,
or shadow,
or chilled wind,
or camp-fire on my shoulders.
What I have are litanies of wrongs
My lover who ran away
with my best friend.
Mrs. Rose screaming
in my office over nothing.
My sister stuffing
the dirty dippers
under my sofa.
The years of poverty.

Numbers and medication
made me shy and small,
the uncivil war with weight,
until I was hardly there at all.

For a man of color,
I smile a lot
and keep on walking.

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