called out on my game

lets have it out, you and I!

I stomp down the stairs.

every poem is a poem about privilege!

I am eating privilege food! I am raging privilege rage! I am grumping privilege grump!

don't tell me to find another word.

I told you already, it's a line drawn by crossing!

there has to be a path that's transcendent of preaching but yes,

I am on my state-the-problem soap box and I know it's annoying!

someday I'll know how to say it just with my eyes,

that I don't mean stand and listen to me.

I mean: come on, your personhood is a soapbox too!

this is not about our subway ride, this is about suspense.

the doors open and shut, and I walk through between them.

you said something about the repeat of words.

and I don't get to know what you said until night time.

there are so many things you have to wait to know!

I peel the subway doors back open and the car is mostly empty, now.

except for some chatter in the corner, enough to talk over so our words don't sound so loud.

we're there on the 4th and 9th platform all morning, sunlight streaming in just like you like.

In this life, things happen one at a time.

I say first: really, why?

and before the doors open I say thank you, and I love you.

though I can imagine what we talk about in between,

I hasn't really happened yet, and so I don't get to know.

(and cynthia hopkins sings)

it's beautiful, we don't know the ending.

we don't even know the next words!