going to meet the man

On the way to meet the man I skipped down southern streets, 

Concrete the color of coal  

The air itself seemed to grind its teeth. 

Strolling down to meet the man  

I sang, trying to match the pitch of cries I heard down alleyways  

Or the blue and red sirens in search of black bodies to pain. 

Down south, if the streets are a game, 

We are the only victors. 

Marshmallow pigment keeps us protected  

While we write our scripts in black history and leave our signatures. 

On the way to meet the man  

I wrinkled my nose at the songs of black freedom  

They sang at a pitch I could not reach  

Their hope for change sounded like  

Wade in the water 

Or hands together at the Father  

They preach. 

We mock. 

There is no God here to save you. 

On my way to meet the man  

I waved at policemen who lurked in corners  

Soon-to-be peering down at the  

Twisted face of a brown criminal  

Or maybe an innocent bystander 

Or maybe it didn’t matter. 

On the way to meet the man  

I stopped to look at strange fruit that hung from trees 

A necklace of shame adorned the swollen necks 

Of lifeless, decaying bodies. 

I gazed at the sly smile on one man’s face  

As if death was the best thing he could see or taste, 

As if tree limbs were a suitable resting place.  

On the way to meet the man  

I shook hands with folks that lay in the sidewalks 

Called a box their home 

And ate cold defeat for dinner. 

Even after seeing their small frames 

I knew they starved not for food but freedom,  

One of the few dishes not offered on southern menus.  

On the way to meet the man I stepped over litter 

Shattered beer bottles lay scattered  

As if someone tried to make stained glass murals on sidewalk 

Look closely and see depictions of broken black boys 

They say Father stretch my hands toward heaven 

I am void of strength here. 

When I finally met the man 

He stood on his front porch 

A standing statue who had long acknowledged my views 

Who had long believed they were just. 

As we looked onto the street I had walked along, 

We hummed harmonies of white pride and songs. 

Loud above the tones of these southern blacks  

From everyone in county to ones in trees, hanging with their bodies slack.