The Color Poor

Shug like honey.

And I swarm ‘round her just like a bee.

Shug like cashmere

Pretty hair bows bouncing their way to the grocery store

Picking fruit too ripe for a poor man's taste buds

Shug like freedom.

Like dreams bigger than my mama's check could buy.

A plane that lands far off and far in between.

Shug like first class.

Fine wine and fresh grapes.

Been there done that, wrote a poem and sent it on a postcard

Shug like the land of the free, the home of the brave, a pat on the back and the right to vote for all of the above

Shug like honey.

And I swarm ‘round her just like a bee.

Waiting to taste scrapes of her America.

Feening at the thought of her dropping a piece of privilege from her purse.

For a quarter to fall from her pockets.

Musing at the way god would remember my name if I could throw a penny in her wishing well.

She’s the kind of woman the angels want to hear a cry from

the way her stomach always looks full

and her skin shines like fresh fruit.

You can tell that her mother cut the crust of her peach pies and kisses her a song in the morning.

You can tell her daddy’s rich and her ma is good looking

Oh hush little baby don’t you cry a tear for me.

Shug like honey.

And America feeds her with a silver spoon

Shug like riches.

And I swarm ‘round her like a slave.

Like my daddy's name is etched in my mamas memory but my name ain’t even crossed his.

Like my daddy’s gone and my ma is broken hearted

Oh hush little baby don’t you cry

Don’t you cry a tear for me.

Don’t you miss a meal for me.

Never mind the fact that my body reeks of corner store breakfast and liquor store lunch.

This is your garden shug.

But know he beats me when you’re not here.

He beat me for not being you.

America be Albert to the rich and mister to the poor.

But Shug like honey.