Cameras
Cameras
The root of my agony
Lies beyond this dollar store
To my foremothers and forefathers
Shackled by thieves
Stolen from the graces of Africa
Their feet once light to
The drum's rhythmic complexity
Now bound in the west
My feet --- diseased
Prohibited to roam
Even in this
Tiny, dusty, dollar store
This Indian man’s curiosity unveils
Equating me to ---a crime
Or a suspect
My large plastic drugstore bag
Opens in obedience
My purchased 18 pack of recycled toilet paper
And four nightgowns
For mama and grandma to share
The Indian man offers
To carry my school supplies
And have them rung up
Cameras watch me
As do the Indian man
In this closed
Confined space
Next trip to the dollar store
I arrive empty-handed
My recycled cotton tote bag
Folded flat
Into my navy blue Land's End
Water resistant jacket
Plastic man
Paid with plastic money
At the exit I
cautiously bare and clutch my tote
To secure
My heavy notebooks
The black plastic bags
Could have torn
By Marckincia Jean
Free verse
09/09/17
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