Here's something you might be interested in.
In your battered blue truck, with the dents
above the right rear tire
and your brown elbow hanging out the driver's window,
you stare at me from behind reflective sunglasses
and from beneath the rim of a baseball cap
without smiling, looking like a postcard
my college friend Joanne would have on her 'frig,
right next to the one from Fort Lauderdale
with muscle men all lined up in thong bikinis.
*
I've seen you before, getting the mail
in your levis and shirt, tucked in
long legged stride, neck held tall, waist length godly
wrap me it hair shielding you.
You weren't smiling then either.
*
I look at you, and imagine things only a divorcee would.
But, you know. I'd never walk right up to you in my tight jeans
and long-legged stride, staring you down from behind my Ray-Bans,
and dare to talk to you.
*
You are beautiful, Indian man. But, I don't want
your picture, or Indian baby; don't want you
just because you're Indian; don't want your feathers,
your drums, your sacred chants ,
lakes or religion. And I don't want your boy lies
or cowardly addictions. I won't take from you
what you expect me to.
*
Steve said that it was hard being an Indian.
Not an accuse, just the truth.
*
I smile big, walk strong
right past you, without taking my eyes from yours,
watch you watch my hair move like the long loose leaves
of a weeping birch in the breeze and wish
you felt half as proud as you look.
In your battered blue truck, with the dents
above the right rear tire
and your brown elbow hanging out the driver's window,
you stare at me from behind reflective sunglasses
and from beneath the rim of a baseball cap
without smiling, looking like a postcard
my college friend Joanne would have on her 'frig,
right next to the one from Fort Lauderdale
with muscle men all lined up in thong bikinis.
*
I've seen you before, getting the mail
in your levis and shirt, tucked in
long legged stride, neck held tall, waist length godly
wrap me it hair shielding you.
You weren't smiling then either.
*
I look at you, and imagine things only a divorcee would.
But, you know. I'd never walk right up to you in my tight jeans
and long-legged stride, staring you down from behind my Ray-Bans,
and dare to talk to you.
*
You are beautiful, Indian man. But, I don't want
your picture, or Indian baby; don't want you
just because you're Indian; don't want your feathers,
your drums, your sacred chants ,
lakes or religion. And I don't want your boy lies
or cowardly addictions. I won't take from you
what you expect me to.
*
Steve said that it was hard being an Indian.
Not an accuse, just the truth.
*
I smile big, walk strong
right past you, without taking my eyes from yours,
watch you watch my hair move like the long loose leaves
of a weeping birch in the breeze and wish
you felt half as proud as you look.