There is a black man with a flute, playing
Not far from the Metro's Smithsonian station.
He's performing for tourists with skins like snow
And ice and dollars that drizzle the sounds
Of sleet. My cap covers my ears,
But I'm sure I've heard him.
Didn't he play for names his children still fear
In their sleep?
Didn't dark men leave him with sad songs
Like shadows on shade?
Didn't he shiver all night once, then play
As the sun only turned
Black into white?
Didn't he play a song made for himself,
Rare for its being one without key?
If I could catch his eye
I could see his mind, see
If he's dreaming it,
That freedom-soaring song.
But I'm still the white man,
And everything stands between us.
We must both tend the difference
To be so divisible.
Hasn't anyone told him,
Every man is a song,
Though very few listen?
|