Fifty Years Later...

I live a dream. For some, it is a dream come true. For others, it is a dream that was laid out beyond the reach of their lifespan. How is one lynched? To be honest, I do not know. I study the names of those who did With faint reverence And unquestionable youthful arrogance. I live a dream. I am judged more so by my style of dress Than my skin color; A compromise from society, to Dr. King. What is the Ku Klux Klan? I have seen them in movies, I wonder how many still exist. Instead of those ghosts, my nightly fears are that of an average teenage American: “I hope the teacher doesn’t check the homework tomorrow.” I live their dream. It was not my mine, Yet it is my possession. Does the fat merchant lick his lips in the presence of jade? No. He eyes it with indifference, Then tosses it into a pile of its brethren. My school. My social status. My everyday peace of mind. A pile of semi-precious rocks. I am complacent. I am the product of the civil rights movement.