A Cloudy Day

I left the Home, a shabby lumbering shack, Taking only the clothes on my back And the chime of Symmetrical thoughts, And walking with Ambitious steps, Trampling the Dirty paths, and Pursuing a primmer trim and Brighter paint, And stream-lined roads, with brilliant Circus lights atop, orchestrating During such expeditions to dangerous, Foreign lands, there would be Company – The Boys – with Familiar thoughts— We’d dress the same, drab, and, Beyond this, our skin was the same And They’d say We were all the same, Web Du Bois, Fredrick Douglass, Ida B. Wells— And every Building the same, no matter what inside As We marched along, from Our hell To Their heaven, We observed a peculiar Transformation—the shops morphed into Strictly admitted museums, with cantankerous guards, And Exhibits not to be touched, and a Window looking toward a whiter, Brighter world. And We would watch from a darkened outside, at These lofty, antique Americans— And after the day, where great, White clouds stood between us And the sun, We’d journey back, Fatigued and Different, to Our Benthic Depths, only to scuttle out again, Big-eyed and avid, to these museums We’d never touch or visit, the thoughts We’d never think, the words unspoken, and Envy Many Cloudy days did pass us, with grief, And candor, and pain, and Silent battles lost— Alas! Our campaign grew, and Our Cause found its Head, and a crown Fitting a King! With Valiant Men, who’d sit for a King, and A cause Greater than themselves We’d defy the museum guards and The warning signs, and we’d touch, and move, Those antique Traditions, We’d move silently and piously, then, Suddenly, swiftly and cunning as a Panther, Whilst the clouds stood aside, letting through The Free rays of day. And, after the museum Rules were changed, as a group, We began to talk like Americans, look like Americans Finally, We began to feel like Americans.