When it's done,
all that's left is what
I've carried.
I'm one of those, over-looked
forgotten browns
yet,
when you need me
you find me
somewhere,
maybe at Krogers or,
a State Liquor store buried
at the end of the check-out line
smooth and flat.
My progenitors have been
dead for hundreds of years,
but, I'm still here,
wasteful, wasted
dead as they are,
dead as you.
I'm sure you don't remember me,
or the many times you've unfolded
my creases, stuffed
me with fifths of E & J or cans of 211
then, after I'd carry
them to a back alley,
you'd throw me away.
Times during renaissance
I'd earn respect
from fraternities and sororities
with my colorism tests.
But now, you can find me
under the Canal street bridge tenting
a man in the middle of winter,
or emptied, crumbled,
and plastering myself
against a neighbor's fence.
[my newest poem]
