Bus Stop

I rode the bus again today.
Took my seat in the very back.
I didn’t want to be seen.
It’s not like what I wanted would change the fact that
No one ever saw me anyway
No one important.
No one ever saw my charcoal colored skin
My coiled hair,
Or my feet covered in corns from having to walk
Six miles.
To the bus stop every morning.
In my favorite pair of shoes
The shoes that had more holes than the mouth of the boy whose
Teeth were knocked out after he attempted
Attempted to sneak into the "Whites only" theater with that little friend of his.
He didn’t know any better.
My holes were painless
But my feet and my soul held pain greater than a knife deep in the back of the "Colored" folk.
For we have been stabbed and burned because our charcoal skin
Was never worthy of a true friend.
The pain that was passed from generation to generation seemed never ending
Would it end?
We were no longer slaves but freedom was farther away from us than before.
We were now slaves to the back of the bus.
The seats that made our butts numb because we weren't allowed heat,
While those white folk warmed their toes and smiled those malicious smiles.
We were still slaves.
Slaves to the man with the light, white skin.
I pulled the string
My stop was here.
Getting up, I felt them stare
I heard them giggle
I paid them no mind
I would not become a slave to a sneering smile that intended no happiness
Me and my charcoal skin,
We walked
To the next Bus Stop.

Guide that inspired this poem: