FLYING WHILE BLACK
In the air, the banter begins
Purely due to proximity
A strange need to say something—to share
Since one’s practically cheek to cheek
Pleasantries awkwardly fly
Random questions exposing a flaw
Every who, what, when, where, and why
Seeking conclusions to draw
About stunning lapses in thought
Social circles—deliberately small
So that ignorance is—more often than not
What’s revealed whether he speaks at all
Perhaps nervousness is the spark
Surely something inspires the need
To demonstrate one’s ill-informed smarts
And familiarity
“Hello, Stranger. What do you do?”
“I’m a poet”, opens the door
Will curiosity walk calmly through
Or will stereotypes underscore
The need to expand one’s horizons
Diversify cohorts and friends
Take the time to learn of those unlike oneself
Be prepared for the moments life lends
To demonstrate understanding
That not everyone you meet
Fits the narrative you’ve been commanding
And trot out, when you feel forced to speak
What’s a reasonable reply
To the revelation that a man chose
A livelihood in The Arts
Yielding no less than prize-winning prose?
Eagerness for origin stories, and details?
Excitement, interest, and awe?
Should hysterical laughter; stunned silence thereafter
Or the pitying shake of the head, that one makes
When confronted with asinine triggers and bait, like
“Do you write in patois?”
Be the way to counter assumptions?
What is it, I surmise
That the noted, carefree
Black poet should be?
Can he camouflage his true identity
Or just plan to pretend to be sound asleep
When flying the unfriendly skies?
VRW
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