Lives Matter

When you’re poor
stealing’s always on your mind;
when you need some dishcloths
or a scrap of food to feed
your kids, you’ll find
that impulse calling more and
more.

It doesn’t matter if you’re black
or white -
we all have that need
for self-preservation
and to fight.

And yet I still find myself 
on a train platform
with a young black man,
unconsciously thinking
keep an eye on that bike, and
keep an eye on your
prejudices, if you can.

I’m guilty, I’m guilty - cry shame. 
I sometimes cross that line, 
I swore, I promised.
If it glittered gold enough,
would I even pinch
my own moral compass?

I came very close to taking something
which was never mine.
And yet I can unconsciously judge
a stranger -
is that normal and fine?

I look to images from across the ocean
and see black children
with rubber bullets
pointed at them
because of a notion

that’s torn the deepest fissure
through the centuries:
that white lives matter more.
You don’t believe me?
Check the penitentiaries.

It’s the same notion that seems
friendly, see this, say that,
we’re all caught in the maul.
You see that black conductor
and a single thought flashes:
‘You make that Southern cap
look cool’.