The black object’s phlegm is green in the center of a milky white, which is
less of a shock than the look that passes between it and the thin-mustache-of-a-
black that waits for its release.
One object waits for the other to form a mouth: it sees pink lips shape to
blow waste. A black object, realizing it is being watched, would normally hold a
lug in, until the corner.
In fact, it knows, one should spit as little as possible, leastwise upon a
floor, but here on a street, approaching a corner, in an instance where one has an
audience, the black object lets go.
Lazy lidded eyes vanish into a head. The black object thinks, for its spit, it
is met with both expectation and disdain. But one black wanted it from the other.
Should spit more often, it thinks.
In a post office line, the black object sees an image of a black, drawn in
charcoal, who is supposed to be in a hoodie, but whose upper torso and face
emerge like a head in a pod from a bag.
Without a wholly visible head, there is only a flat layer of eyes that float from
a sketched surface. Nothing is recognizable beyond the shape of a nose, and the
cross hatching around his eyes.
Just when the black object begins to think about that partial black face, how
the head is sealed or not sealed in hood or plastic, a Jehri Curled object with a light
black baby, screams: “Hurry up!” or “You next!”
Of course, the black object, who hates poor behavior, turns around and casts
fast disdain back to the rough black curl who screams, saying to her “Calm down”
Sometimes if one says “Calm down” or “Relax” to a crass black object, that
object will operate much like a flag at the end of a wind’s tether. Flapping, this is
the case: “I’m from L.A!” Looking down to the silent child, the flapper asks, “huh-
Originally published in Poetry Net.
See all the pieces from 29 Days of Beautiful here.