In
a house with nice people I just met
A
dog and a cat that reminded me of my ex-pets
A
shuttle on the way to the airport
The
curb, the security
Taking
off my shoes in front of people
People
who tell me to put up my arms
See
people in my business
My
socks on a carpet trafficked by people
Their
touch, their breath, their there
The
sense they do not belong to people
At
the gate, sitting delayed with performing people
Stroking
their belt buckle, their Mac crow’s feet
I
don’t like to be with people for unnecessary hours
Plug
in my cell and read about British and Irish poets
Women
of a New Confessionalism
Turn
the page to get rid of people
In
the waft of waste is seat 28C
I
sit there to my rowmate’s surprise
I
read to escape the bull of people
Minus
fog that kept us en retard, the sun falls on people
The
attendant tells me I have San Francisco glasses
She
is mean, I know
She
masturbates with bunnies
Goes
from tail to front
Chortles
to come
Caricature
is a new feminism
Silly
is deconstructive
I
have apple when she tells me her juices
The
landing’s smooth as a good pressing
People
take out phones to alert other people
Grab
their luggage, exit with no hiccups
They
get it for that moment—
Listen,
people giving thanks
BART
has no people and I put my feet up
Watch
passengers grow
His
face looks like a racer
She
transitions to her sex
Her
fanny pack is practical
The
child’s cries are spoiled
Go
to the station for Westfield Mall
Lunch
in its ground floor
Spicy
beef ramen, seaweed salad, and these bothersome tomato slices too
Not
a people take the seat next to me
Young
people wear shorts with their maximus out
Too
much pubic for public
The
mother wipes baby’s lips
Father
waxes noodles
Now
a compost receptacle is offered
Why
must people be charged for big brown bags?
I
navigate the touristy vein of Powell Street
His
Jansport shields his chest
Two
sisters both have rattails
One
man begs for change
Another
gives a weekly
My
luggage has 360-wheels to maneuver with people
Working
my forearms on hillish blocks
I
arrive an hour early to the dentist
I
read “Interculturalism . . .” from the essay’s title
Dr.
Duffala will see me now
My
commute will avoid the rush
Duffala
has stories of 15 people
My
gums are good and barely bleeding
Duffala
says, Are you hearing the people?
This
cleaning is a longer protest
I
add fare to my Clipper
I
queue
Lean
against the station map and people stare
Her
freckles and ugly thumbs
She
stands like her cock's in pendulum
Montgomery
made us uncomfortable
Dublin/
comes out of the Bay, and picture the sun
Obama
on a wall, yellow petals in a People’s Garden
She
types really fast
He’s
been bit by man-o-war
Polish
grits when I clench
I
sometimes wake with hurt temples
People
don’t know how to move out the way.
Cave Canem graduate fellow Arisa White is the author of Perfect
on Accident, You’re the Most Beautiful Thing That Happened, Black
Pearl, Post Pardon, A
Penny Saved, and Hurrah's Nest. Her poetry
has been nominated for a Lambda Literary Award, NAACP Image Award,
California Book Award, and Wheatley Book Award. The chapbook “Fish Walking” & Other Bedtime Stories for My Wife won the inaugural Per Diem Poetry Prize. She's the
co-author of Biddy Mason Speaks Up, the second book in the Fighting for
Justice series for young readers. Arisa is an assistant professor of creative
writing at Colby College. arisawhite.com
the
Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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