Through Unsettling Mist
Two burglaries late one night
in a so-called up-scale neighborhood,
where you might see one black guy
at his mailbox, tending his lawn,
or pulling out of the driveway.
That night, I peeped out a front window
after seeing police lights flashing.
A half hour later, more blue lights,
then more, then flashlights shining
inside the homes of two white neighbors
vacationing on Memorial Day.
Still wearing yard clothes,
I thought of opening my front door
and stepping out to the porch,
but a silent voice reminded me
that I was a black man.
So, I kept the door shut,
and gazed through unsettling mist,
thinking about the arrest
of Dr. Henry Louis Gates Jr.
after he entered his own home,
and pondering the frightening question
of why any black man in America today
would hesitate to stand on his front porch,
not for fear of being a victim of a crime
but a suspect of committing one.
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