Intolerance

Basks in the wrath of reluctance

and refusal. It lingers...

A young Asian boy sneaks to his corner
of the brick rancher house on Washington and 3rd.
He pauses before he paints
his thumb-nail black, then red, then black again.
And his father comes
slaps him across the cheek
The rose-colored flesh radiates with heat
And the mark lingers...

Meanwhile

A forty-something White man signs in his corner
of the shiny-squared office building on Jefferson and H.
He hesitates before he presses "call"
on his cellphone, then "end," then "call" again
And his mother answers,
"You shoulda never married that Black girl, Jummy."
Click.
And the dial tone lingers...

Intolerance.

Maybe it isn't reluctance or refusal
maybe it is fear.

Everytime I open my mouth or
write with my pen
someone calls me angry or
someone calls me a hero.

I am not angry.
I am not a hero.
I was just born
this way. Fighting, hoping, and then
fighting again.

In - tolerance.
Tolerance. In
tolernace.
Those two letters can be life or death, happiness or depression...
And yet still
the "in" lingers,
masks the world in a deep fog.
And we -
we "human beings" -
we bask in the fog
until someone brave enough comes along,
turns on a light, and we say
"Yeah. Uh-huh. I like that person."
Until the light runs out
And we breathe deep again
Into the lingering fog that won't settle.