Nobody's Listening

Nobody's Listening (PMxx)

I feel the sting of indifference

enter my body and fill my

soul with bitter venom

infecting my bloodstream and

rendering me a seething mass

of hatred and sadness.

I pull my socks all the way up

almost to my balls

and hope to plod on with that

very Anglo piece of advice.

The socks fall so fast and

my garters are useless to grab

them and perhaps give me

a fighting chance.

I make the phone calls I am

supposed to make,

and keep the appointments

with the people I am

supposed to see.

They look through me, hoping

I will go away

and disappear from their list

of people they are supposed

to fix.

I walk out of these meetings

knowing my problems have

not been solved,

and at best I have only

delayed the inevitable and

perhaps even extended my

period of suffering.

They think they've fooled me

into a sense of security

and sanity, a strong mix

of depravity and stupidity.

I have not been fooled.

I found myself thinking the

other day,

of just jumping on a plane

and hoping to land somewhere

less hostile,

more welcoming.

Strangely I find myself in

Nigeria of all places,

noted in my brain is a picture

postcard I was sent by

an Israeli friend,

of a woman potmaker,

showing off her pot in the

streets of Lagos.

When I got out of

the airport I would find

this woman,

and ask her to teach me her

artisan trade.

I would hide my non-blackness

with a couple of weeks

in the sun,

and then I could blend in,

and make pots,

and everything would work out

okay.

MCC