In Bridgetown
I swim in a sea of black faces
and wonder who they think I am
if they think of me at all.

Why do I expect a smile
on all the faces on the bus,
acknowledgement, acceptance of me,
an obvious interloper?

Singled out
by the shop owner
he beckons me to the front of the line,
his arm making a sweeping arc,
as if to say
“No white face waits in my shop!”
 

I should have objected
and stood my ground
but I didn’t.

He acknowledges me
with a “thumbs up”
and a smile when I order
jerk chicken and salad.

The smile on his face
is genuine, I want to believe,
making him appear younger
than he must be.

Who lives in those pretty houses
behind solid white walls?
I’m afraid I know…

Who lives in those tin-roofed shacks
behind rusting, rotting autos growing in front yards?
I’m afraid I know…

Ought we depend on their being satisfied
with their lot?
I think not.

copyright 2006