Writers workshop
but they are nothing more than
bookstore conversations
peeling away the days anxieties
and telling the truth of our lives,
getting beyond the convenient
language that seems to build
nothing more than a rope bridge
between simultaneous experiences;
we live together
but share nothing more
than the square mileage
that defines a city
and our circles rarely overlap.
And, I forget,
that I've lived your whole life
twice over
and am still teaching the same lessons,
colloquially speaking,
b/c racism is engrained in my whole existence,
etched in every memory;
your privilege will never be my access,
no matter how many degrees
you may confirm upon me,
I'm still brown enough
not to blend into the tapestries
of your organization.
And, we write,
over and through the toughest part
of this shared experience,
new poetry
where there was none before,
on an empty bookstore table
somewhere in Greensboro
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