South Station

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.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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