What Does One Do

Seeing another man

shot in the street,

a mother killed in her bed,

folks left to die

by those who protect and serve?

When one sees hate

directed at those

who ask for justice?

How does one write a poem, drive a bus, do biochemistry,

or even wash one’s tightly curled hair?

How does one continue:

to love– to give—

to this country–to these people–

I am old and white

protected

but even my stomach churns

What does one do

when one’s skin

is a death sentence?

Yet, one does.

One thrives,

in the middle

of a broken heart, and gives,

and loves, and mourns

I, untouched,

try to mourn with you

but know I am failing