So today is the 100th day and TSE’s closing poem over at Starting Today is wonderful.

First Grade, All Over Again

[1]

When he was little
and just a boy
and called Barry,

his report cards
were shown, first,
to the one person

whose approval
mattered the most,
his mother, Ann Dunham.

Works well with others
who do not work
well with each other.

Another GOP No,
another honor roll of polls,
locked-in telephoto.

[2]

Barry Obama was
African-American,
African father, American mother,

but not Barack,
Barack Obama is mixed,
race-less and Black.

I have seen more photos
of Barack Obama
than I ever seen

of my own mother.
Blame the Press,
digital photography, all

the camera-phones,
raised like Rockefellers,
above the rest of us.

[3]

My mother hates
being aimed at. “But Mom, this is
a really good camera,

a Leica.” So what, it’s
all German to her
and that means torture,

already half locked-up
with my brother.
Armed robbery, his war crime.

My parents broke-up
the day Jimmy Carter
was inaugurated,

the last time swine
sent to wipe out drug cartels
came home to roost.

[4]

There’s no way to stay
“on-subject” and do this
without high marks

for marksmanship.
Some bald, class bully
taking shots at him,

saying he’s not tough.
Saying he’s a brown Apologist,
shaking hands with

future allies-of-color
weakens us, so let’s waterboard Bo,
the bi-racial Water Dog.

Let’s let the human eye decide
if colorblind is cultural
or regular-blindness.

[5]

Mother’s Day in the White House,
Marian and Michelle.
First Granny and First Lady.

Out of vernacular-respect,
Black men often refer
to the women they love as “Mama.”

This is not something
the minority expects the majority
to accept, reconciliation.

“Once a man loses his mother,
he can accomplish
damn-near anything.”

I heard this on the streets
of Washington, D.C.,
right outside the office of citizen.