Way Black There

Me, Black

Afro

American

Product of rape

Product of hate

Product of product;

I reproduce in self hate;

Me.

 

I sit in the front of the bus.

I can smell the roses, through the crack of the window,

Parks parked just outside

The tinted advertised window.

 

Hanging over me,

Schedules and maps

Where routes

Show roots

Through congestion

And confused concrete.

Congratulate

Me,

I figured out a path.

 

Another one, just like me,

And another,

And another

Drop coins like dirty drawers

Or tap a prepaid card

For entry.

 

We sit in front of the bus.

Because

We can.

Because

It’s just a seat.

Because

We paid our fare, too.

 

We sit.

We.

We in the front of the bus,

Us,

Three, 4, 5,6,7,

They said if we obeyed

God would spear us and

We’d end up in Heaven.

But I always wondered

Why he let the sinners speak for Him.

 

There’s more of us sprinkled throughout

Some of us tired,

Some of us loud,

Some of us hurting,

I think we’re all hurting.

Some of us stink,

Some of us are real clean.

Some of us lonely,

Some of us want to be alone.

Leave us alone,

That means our culture too.

Find your own.

We all remember,

We will never forget,

We will not just get over it.

 

One stop,

Two stops,

Three.

He, white

American

Rapist

Hater

Producer;

He sits with us three,

4,5,6,7.

He looks at the three,

4,5,6,7

Of us

 

Uncomfortably placed

Between Two of Us.

He won’t lean back

Against the seat

For fear of touching us

Or maybe his back has been whipped. 

Poetry Slam: 

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