A Racist Bone

A Racist Bone

I don't have one.
I don't buy none.
I don't borrow none.
I don't crave none.


I don't want a single one
them racist bones,

not underside my ribs,
'tectin' my heart—

not overtop my skull,
shieldin' my brain— 

not round my back,
bulwarkin' my spine.


Day I's born,
doctor don't slap  me up my backside
with one them

racist bones,

and Mother don't feed me up my hunger
with no gnawing on those

racist bones,

and my school don't teach me up wrong 
with no 'lectual books readin' on

racist bones,

and my church don't hymn me
with no musical 

racist bones,

and my friends don't pal me up
with "we in this together"

racist bones.


But just a second young man— 
now I been thinkin' 'bout it
long time—
goodly while—
indeed, mosta my life—

despite I lovin' LeBron
roarin' up court,
full steam ahead,
"outta my way!"

and marvel that Stephen Curry pest,
shootin' anywhere on court,
swishin' 'em like
nobody's business—

why do I keep hopin'

yeah, why I be hopin'

so nobody notice me,
nobody hear me,
nobody know me,

and if I don't have no racist bone

nowhere in my body
growing inside me,

secret in my mind somewheres,
crouched down my heart chambers,
camouflaged in my soul,

all invisible like,


I'm asking you why,

do I keep hopin' some skinny
white kid come along,

someone like

Cousy, Bird, Pistol Pete,

all rolled up in one human concoction
like one them Thai spring rolls
all mixed up vegetables,

come along,

and throw a barricade up on LeBron,
shuttin' him down all good an' proper,

and hold Mr. Curry to 18 measly,

all the while putting up
a grand 42 and 12 unselfish shares


on any given Saturday night?

If I sincere got no racist bone,
then why I be thinkin' that way?

Somethin' not quite right here.

Could it be possible I got 'fected somehow
with one them racist viruses,
and it be festerin' my marrow?

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Pexels.com

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