ArneshiaI'm on Lake Street. All the gangsters,
Friends of friends, have told me that
This isn't where a white man goes.
You hear the guns pop in the night.
You see the too-possessive faces
Glare as I come courting at the
Projects, bearing flowers for
Arneshia, who is sweet on me.
I'll usher her into my car.
I'll take her out to dinner
Somewhere far from Lake Street,
Somewhere quiet and respectable,
To show her what she means
To me, and, when we've finished,
I will take her home. We'll sit
And watch TV with her two
Brothers, and her mom, and
Her grandmother, all of whom
Have never had a white man
Sitting in their home to watch
TV. I'll do my best to show that I
Am truly smitten with Arneshia.
I'm not here to grab a poke, nor
Am I here to try to bring the lot
Of them back into chains. I'm
Here to dance to Motown music
With this woman who I love,
And to be judged, if there's
A chance, as just a man, not
Simply one who's white.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 41 times
Written on 2017-04-21 at 02:39
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