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You see me swagger to a stop

at the crosswalk, chin bobbing on

the currents of my playlist, and the Nike

Swoosh on my sleeveless says

I hold my shape after washing.

I look upstreet, presenting you

the question curving along my cheek.

What a nice man you’re thinking,

his Afro is nonthreatening

like a light bulb invented by Thomas Edison.

You’re having ideas, right? Weighing

myths and elongating for answers.

I’m walking your way, broad as day,

and you have to choose. Do

you relax your shoulders and step

into the street or clench your toes

and face your faith in the human

race: all men are created

sequals, every black

man is not a syllable.