Status Quotient
A man my age drove a purple BMW
along the paved way between century
old trees. His baseball cap
escalated up from his forehead
suggesting satisfaction
with his station.
As soon as he passed I recited
a litany of jazz drummers
in an effort to out hip him.
The riots were still unfamiliar
and far away. I was still white,
male, and on the clock.
I wanted to herald myself
as an un-enemy. Hold my
imaginary place in the lineup.
The hero acquiring wisdom
by the random osmosis
of friendly black acquaintance.
The simplicity of money
allowed me to stimulate progress
as soon as I got home. There’s a white
man somewhere I need to negate.
And then my apologies for
appropriation might cascade.
The best poem I can write
will urge you to read other culture’s
poets. History only stands
to condemn those of us
who learn too late,
our difference is negotiable.
