He passes me in South Station —
his duffel bag more duct tape than fabric,
his hair a stiff, frayed field,
his sweatshirt bearing the words
“UNAPOLOGETICALLY BLACK”
showing from under his puffy coat —
and I hear him
softly but emphatically repeating
BLONDE
BLONDE
BLONDE
BLONDE
BLONDE
as he goes out
unapologetically into
slushy old Boston’s
colonial headwaters,
that universal password
relentless upon his chapped lips.
Dark Matter 