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I long for grounding on my kitchen floor
the air smells sweet as the pumpkin is cooked
cinnamon wafting every which way, or
my head is a lie, unseemly, unhooked:
I sit here for hours at a time like
some fidgety monk waiting for the beep
of the microwave timer; my food is done
I’ll eat here too, since to eat is to sleep:
Or so says the saying for the black man
to eat is to sleep, a logical step
from slaveman chains all the way to Sandman
feeding piggish collards to human pets:
By my human flesh, I can’t stand for it
So I sit here ‘sleep – a black cat, to wit.

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