While waiting
In my car and waiting
I use books, what I see.
Four tables for picnic
Some benches for resting
Small Park has size of
A backyard in some farm.
Curly-haired in the sun
She seats there at table
She wears jeans, tennis shoes
Strapped is her top
Ha two lines though too tight
See no need for noodle straws
And the same for bra.
Both her hair and skin are black
But the hair shines as waxed.
Eyes and mind are in search
Eyes look and search for word
"What is name for colour…? "
Her folder is pink or red, maroon
It is set in the sun; rays reflect.
On elbow and her arm I see what
I cannot find a name; "What colour?
And my mind is elsewhere
What was it? What to name?
The Ali-Malcolm X relation?
Both of them are heroes
Yet they are different
Sea-Ocean two friends, brothers.
Selfishly I believe
I am right in writing my poem
"Black Islam".
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem