bus-trip

There are dreams made on the back seat of the bus
Not just of lovers but of thinkers
Who made love with their past lives, their heritages
Seated on the rear seats.

Of how their ancestors jaywalked outside black lines
On zebra crossings inside a bus
Like Rosa Parks did. And wondering how difficult must have been
To walk with the laces tied, like Kunta Kinte walked once
In braised chain.

And how do you cross the gulf between white and black
Front and back, freedom and incarceration
Africa to America. Gambia to the Mississippi.
Golliwog and Mr Plod.

When everyman is going to the same destination, to time.
Holding the same ticket, life.

And a heart wrapped in fat and stiffened with hypertrophy
Searching for an antidote for the venomous poison

Of the white man’s love affair with hate.

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