I guess it’s easy to want to be                                black,

when everything is the new black,
shiny as LP spinning at 33 rpm

                in the hipster owned record store

                                on the formerly black block

                                                in the formerly black neighborhood
but do you know what comes back
 
around for        black? that needle scratch 

leaves grooves

                                deep                as the river
don’t nobody want the old                black —

people want the Jimi Hendrix black,

the psychedelic star spangled banner by your own rules black
the sparkled glove, moonwalking, grammy winning black,

not the dark skin, big nose self hating                black
not the Jim Crow                black, segregation                black,

poll tax payin, separate but equal                black,
the happy smile shuffling tap dance black,

not the minstrel show, burnt cork black-face                black, 

not the yessir boss                black,
not the whistle at a white girl

and end up cautionary tale                black
when black folks all around you fought 

to gain a piece of the real estate

that’s been redlined

and sold off

and sold off

and sold off                for centuries
when the folks that lay claim

to its legacy got that shit on layaway, 

but don’t ever get to put more than a bit

                of change down each month

                                and interest rates ain’t no joke 

                                                cuz don’t nothing change
then I guess being                black

is like putting on a pair of snow pants 

to brace against the cold when 

you’re already fully dressed
and you just love your accessories,

                been sliding on                kimonos and                dashikis

                                and                headdresses and                dreadlocks

                                                for Halloween and theme parties
like characters 

you can switch                in                and                out                of

like accents,
like a downpour

of a storm
except you get to decide 

when it’s time to come in

and take shelter out of the rain
Daemond Arrindell is our Poet in Residence for August. Previously: Disbelief