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
of those racist bones,
not underside my ribs,
not shielding my head,
not ‘tectin’ my heart.

When I’s an innocent child
 I’s not born with some those 
racist bones,
and Mother don’t love me
racist bones,
and books don’t read me
racist bones,
and friends don’t friend me
racist bones.

But just a second young man,
now I been thinkin’ ‘bout it
long time, goodly years while,

despite I lovin’ LeBron
and marvel that Stephen Curry pest,

why do my soul keep hopin’
yeah, hopin’,

quietly, so nobody see me,
nobody hear me,
nobody know me,

and if I don’t have no racist bone,
growing inside me,
secret in my mind somewheres,
crouched down my heart chambers,
camouflaged in my soul,

all invisible like,

I’m askin’ you truly why,

do I keep hoping some skinny
white kid come along,

someone most like

Cousy, Bird, Pistol Pete,
all rolled up in one

white kid

come along,

and put a stuffin’ on LeBron,
and hold Mr. Curry to 18 measly,

all the while putting up
a grand 42 and 12 assists
on any given Saturday night?

If I got no racist bone,
then why am I thinkin’ that way?

Somethin’ not quite right here.
It be stuck my marrow maybe? 
Photo by Tim Mossholder on Pexels.com

Checked Baggage

 Checked Baggage
My question then, 
brother immigrant,
of Southampton, 

were you already a racist 

when you stepped aboard the Mayflower
with all your earthly belongings 
that chilly September day in 1620, 

or did you get infected 

much later in Mississippi?
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