I was listening to the commercial on television with CNN talking about their past news casts. One of them was some special on "what it means to be Black in America. I started writing this after hearing that commercial this morning. (please forgive the constant appearance of ellipses. I have fought with Myspace's program to input this as it should be lineated...inputing this here took longer than the poem took to write.)

What it means to be Black in America.....

.. ..

That someday, sometime, when you maybe least expect it....

someone will use “that word”.  You will wonder how long....

that word has been in their vocabulary, how many times....

they have used it, and towards whom (other than you, there, right now). ....

 You will wonder what it is about you that caused them to use ....

that word towards you—not that Black is a secret, but you don’t think of....

 it when you are,  you just are-- like the mole on your right cheek, the ....

way your left eye sleeps slightly but is only noticed when someone takes a ....

picture of you.....

.. ..

What is means is that when someone drives by

with the Confederate flag pasted on the....

back of their truck—one of real fabric striking even more of a cord than ....

a plastic sticker in a window, and a bumper sticker laying somewhere....

In between the real flag and the sticker—....

Your heart skips a beat—lost and remembered, seeing the stories of....

Your uncles before your mind’s eye, wondering “is that really who is inside....

that vehicle”? ....

You are both stopped at the red of the traffic light, and there is nothing else ....

To do but look across—other than looking ahead—and so you both do.  I think....

Of how normal he looks; and what is he thinking?