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.

This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s