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