My son and I walk

As we always do,

Talking all through our neighborhood.

We get to a house where we see a guy we don't know

Has been hired to fix something.

It's a black guy, and he looks at us

Like we're already judging him.

We say hello, and ask him how he's doing.

He cocks his head, as if

We're deigning to talk to him

Just because he's black,

And says with a chip, "I'm BLESSED!"

But what he doesn't know is,

My son and I say hello to everyone,

And we ask everyone we see

How he or she is doing.

So I fight the urge to chip back,

"Oh, yeah? Well, we're BLESSED, tooooooo,

Mutha Fuckah!"

I wonder if he would've laughed,

Or been offended,

Or if he'd've wondered if I could read his mind?

Gut instincts are usually right, they say,

So, it's too bad we can't say the first thing that we think of,

Except in a poem every once in a while.

-jenn