They think I‘m one of them,
a white male member
of the club of good old boys,
once-young albino bucks ranging free
among the herd; I am,
nine to five downtown;
sometimes I’m black
under the moon, talking talk I
don’t understand, and yellow
behind a star, walking places
I never knew; and sometimes I
ride red ponies caught in
dreams beneath a sleepless night
until the time is nine downtown
and the albinos start to graze.

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