Mr. Africa Poetry Lounge!
Manchild
for bell hooks
A warning one white friend hisses
To the one standing nearest to me
At an Upper West Side newsstand.
As if my ears
Could not cradle human speech.
This is the birth of a regret:
My surprise of the woman on my right
As I reach to buy a paper.
How her
Where? becomes an Oh.
How they grin,
I am a close call, how they grin,
Pickpocket my ease,
How they
Grin, then push off down the street.
Now I have the rest of Saturday.
Who will touch my hand,
Who will take my quarters,
These clots of syntax
Growing cold in the blush of my palm?
Written by Cornelius Eady
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