little black boy
Jimmy Moss
little black boy
sit down.
fold your hands into your lap
and put your lap into order
now cry me a little song.
sing me a little note about me
caring about what you care about,
then dream me a little dream.
and when your tears turn into
oases and exposed rivers
stand up
and pour me a little cup
fill it with every broken promise
and the unfulfilled moments of
belated birthdays and first days
of the school year when your
clothes were unkempt…then
tell me a little secret
about how–you wish your father
bothered enough to be a father
or fathered another version of you,
so that you could have a friend
and then
write me a little poem.
make me a little rhyme about
the places you lived and the schools
you’ve attended
the teachers you’ve impressed
and the classmates
you’ve offended…by simply
being alittle black boy
who could read and speak well
and vividly express himself,
find clean shirts amongst the dirty ones
and dress himself
long enough
to cover up his little pain
and then bring me a little more
of whatever it is that you have
bundled up in your little hand,
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