Nobody knew I was colored.  At Pencey Prep
I mean.  Nobody knew.  Seriously, my hair—
which my mother called muddy-blonde—
was almost straight.  It really was.
And when that hard curl started creeping
I’d cut it quick so there’d be no hint
of the negro in me.

It wasn’t that I minded being half and half.
I didn’t. Not at all—I mean, colored people
make music a thousand times more danceable.
My pop, a corny white guy, is always trying
to play the blues.  Such a phony: bobbing
his head, praying over the keys like he’s
Pinetop Perkins or something, but

he’s such a racist.  He really is.  The reason
he wouldn’t marry my mother, see
the reason was: he didn’t want to live
“in some colored neighborhood.” He wanted
“respectable society”.  Such an ass.
You can’t believe people sometimes.
You really can’t.  Even if you’re related,
they can be pretty damn disappointing.

And Pencey, of course, at Pencey
I kept pretty quiet. Of course, I woulda
got thrown out if anybody got wind of me
being half-Negro, but if you really looked—
at my lips, I mean, and my nose—
you could tell something was going on
with my heritage.

Once I brought up Billie Holiday and
Count Basie and this kid (I think it was
Ackley) said, “What’s with the jungle music—
Some nigger in your woodshed?”
I almost punched him in the mouth,
but I’m such a coward.  I just walked away
whistling “Strange Fruit” really loud.

My whole life was make-believe.
Goddam private schools.  I wanted to say
I am a Negro, you dumbass,
but I never did.  I swear my whole life
has been hide and seek.  Such a lie!
Passing. For white, I mean. Really
insane: the whole race thing.

Even going to church every Sunday:
all the “love thy neighbor” crap.
They’re all smiley-faced, hand-shakin’,
half-ass phonies. And me too—and
maybe the whole country. God bless
this, that, and the other. And look:
us colored folks get hell kicked out of us!
That’s why I’m an atheist. I really am.

So, I don’t have many friends
except maybe my kid sister, Phoebe.
She kills me. She tells people
she’s colored all the time,
but nobody believes her. That’s the thing
about people. They never believe you.
They really don’t. And nobody thinks
about anything. Even if you ask’em
a pretty general question—like Why?
Why any of this? They won’t answer.
They won’t even try.

Maybe we could all just fly away
Time will say nothing, but I told you so
Not sure what else time can really say

Not sure I wanna write this anyway
Woke up feelin like   I jus don’ know
Maybe we could all just walk away

No use runnin hot and yellin all damn day
Mom told me No one monkey stops the show
Guess she didn’t know what else to say

Maybe I should put my mind on layaway
Can’t turn it off—can’t tell where it’ll go
Think I might just turn away

Summa y’all go to church and pray
I look at the sky—   I just don’ know
Maybe we should all just run away

Gotta try somethin, come what might may
When that goes wrong, they’ll shrug I told you so
Ain’t that some worthless shit to say

People worry ‘bout who’s straight, who’s gay:
The body’s the arrow, the heart’s the bow
Someday we’ll all just fly away

When I go, just let Omar Sosa play
Then rock’a my soul at a Funkadelic show

You give me half a chance, I’d get away
When you think about it, same thing time would say

Days when daylight
carries a touch
of night: the trees
late green with summer
whisper autumn    
as though the coming
season were already here

and I guess we have
reached the age
where loss makes a way
into every conversation—
friends, teachers
dead and gone—as if
calling it out

as if naming death
and its daily thievery
might somehow
make it stay away.

I’m almost
a child again:
The boogeyman
only comes
when you turn out
the light

but even with my TV
burning all night
I don’t sleep
so well anymore.

It’s like being caught
with the wrong thing on
for winter and nothing
else to wear.  For a while
I believed it was
the right-wing sickness
that had infected
my country.
For a while

I thought it was
just me getting
older: my parents
recently gone, taking
their kindness with them.

Now I understand
it’s been like this
all along: the snap and trill
of someone talking,
the tap of their good shoes
on the stairs

then silence—
with those of us left
unable to close our eyes
trying to find the hours
in which they once
had lived.