Meditation at the perfect hour

[1]
Dear Tom Dent,
We still love you
And what it means
To be a black college
President's son
Whose point of pride
And rebellion look
Like men in the 6th
& 7th Wards. You
And I knelt before
Them until they
Groaned. And ain't
That music too,
The body of several
Shades made into
One sound of want
Or without or wish
A Negro would come
Back home, little light
Skin, come give Daddy
A kiss.

[2]
I present myself that you might

Understand how you got here
And who you owe. As long as

I can remember Mona Lisa Saloy
Humming along, the band lives,
Every goodbye a lie. Everyone

Of them carries the weight
He chose. And plays it. No theft.
No rape. No flood. No. Not in
This moment. Not in this lovely

Sunlit room of my mind. Holy.
So the Bible says, in the beginning,
A black woman. I am alive. You?
Alive. You born with the nerve

To arrive yawning. You who walk
Without noticing your feet
On an early morning swept hard-

Wood floor. This because Eve,
Because Lucy. This the whole

Toe of the boot of America tapping.

[3]
Poetry is where
I understand
I am nothing
If I can't sit
For awhile
In the audience
Or alone, sit down
Awhile and thank
God the chair
Is still warm.