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Polished Mahogany

Lawrence S. Pertillar 1947 (Connecticut)



So many these days,
Seem consciously limited.
And confined to labels to depict,
The color of 'this' and or 'that'.
With a choosing to pick preferences.

Even today there remains to exist,
Preferences to invite...
And inciting to ignite,
Conflict and racial division.
Over the most foolish,
Of childish nonsense.
That attracts the performance,
Of undeniable witnessed ignorance.

There is no debate or argument,
With me to start over one's skin color.
For those who wish I am kept reminded.

'Yes! I am black. And, I thank you,
For bringing that to my attention.
You must be here on a tour?
The adventure promises to be rewarding.'

Nowhere do I go these days do I see,
No one who is authentically white.
Yellow, brown or black.
But on display they expose a pride to have,
In their colorful ethnicity.
Even though their heritage is mixed.
This is too obvious to ignore.
To notice on a daily basis.

However...
Closely to examine.
I am more a mix of red, brown and black.
Mahogany I call it.
Among others who are also 'mongrel'.
But not identified like that.
The truth to define,
All the time is found traumatic for many.

Yet everyday come what may.
I find a way,
To keep my mind as clear as possible.
Although a challenging task to endure it.
And...
Updated and polished I try to stay.
And admitting quick my blemishes,
With flaws.
Not to necessarily hide them.
But to disguise the finish,
of the appearance...
Aging diminishes!
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Submitted by lpahtillah on July 13, 2021

1:15 min read
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