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.
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