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Holy Ground

At night, I often roam around
the so-called shady side of town.
As I blend in, the people flow
in places decent folk don't go.
I've come to know a face or two
and sure some recognize me, too.
I fantasize about their lives,
detecting some hubristic vibes.
I ponder how they came to dwell
in such a place, akin to Hell.
I wonder if they're here to stay.
For surely they weren't born this way.
Perhaps some came intentionally, 
escaping lives of misery.
Too grim was their reality,
so here they found serenity.
They'd rather deal with snotty glares
from folks who don't know why they're there,
than parch in various degrees
of social thoughts and tendencies

to view a dog better than thee,
simply because they're 
black,
like me.

Copyright © Carol Bowen-Davis

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