look at his eyes
deserted,
like a fruit
left to
rot,
his
limbs swing
near his sides
like limp
bamboo
sticks and his
breath smells
of grits,
potatoes,
cucumber,
conviction
and faith.
he walks
on his heels,
no man with
a blue signal
trusts him,
and yet he
walks the
streets
afraid of
his shadow,
of his
welfare queens,
of his hoodrat
mother and
sister, of the
eraser marks
next to his
burn marks
behind his ear.
he didn’t want
to listen to mommy
cry no more
for his father,
his hands
stack sweat
beads like
the books in
his public library.
dirty sweat, impure
and exotic, it feeds
white guilt over
preferences and
fetishes
the big lips
he carries.
a brown boy
is a target, his
feet creep
like his ancestors
before colonization
while hunting.
it breeds
pure hearted,
impure skin like
men, who feed
their families
good intentions
in the form of lies.
brown boys can’t
be avoided, but they
sure can be accommodated.