I’m no longer MLK
Or Mahatma
Hell, I’m not even Robert
Kennedy
Much less Jack
And forget Harriet Tubman
All I wanted was . . .
the prize
The peace
And justice
For all those years
Of fighting my past
And presenting myself
As open to every change
And hoping—
my former Being
Could be forgiven
For transgressions
Not of my doing
But in my nature
While the saintliness
Of my new design
Desired to be
The low hanging fruit
Lynched high in penitence
Swaying from a tree
That sprinkles liberally
My seeds
Of struggle . . .
goodness and light
On an earth
Ripe with new dawns
That pierce the darkness
With an awakening . . .
sunshine
Yet the world—
blinded by this virtue
Turned tiredly away
Denying the angelic
Sowing
Of a heart unrestrained
Progressively collapsing
The morrow
With realities
Etched in stone
From the bad old days