Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Suburbanite's Lament


It’s hard being a black boy in a bony white body.
Even your own eyes deceive you—
not just mirrors, and the cruel jokes of the blind—
even your own imagination,
even your fingers.
My doodles of guns come out like hair dryers.
I can’t write hood without adding an apostrophe
and thinking of neighbors and cul-de-sacs.