Privilege

Before it’s fully light,
I step outside in shorts
with my flute in my hand.
I might play a note or two,
something quick before dawn,
a bit of whimsy on my part.

No shirt, no shoes, not nervous.
No one to see me, or at least
can’t tell if anyone sees me.
No one can hear me yet.

No one sees me standing here
round and full and pale
in the last darkness.
If I want to be noticed,
I have to do something
outrageous. 

Neighbors, can you see me?  
The fat, pale man,
out-of-place moon
on my porch?  What am I holding
in my hand — a flute of some kind, or
a gun — is that a problem I’m holding,
something for public concern?

Playing this flute
this early, knowing it will likely disturb
someone if I do, knowing if I do
and someone calls the cops
I will likely at most get a talking to
because I am a round pale man
and I get to be whimsical
and have it called “whimsy”
and I won’t likely get shot if I do —

here is the definition
I have never understood completely
until now,
the one beyond the dictionary
and the dry arguments 
and the earnest explanations:  Privilege

is the fact
that I get to hold a flute in dim light
and think about playing it
half naked
on a weekday
in a working class neighborhood
because I can, no other reason,
only half-concerned about
consequences, which for me
might involve being an asshole
but probably not a criminal
or a dead man.