There’s a sign at the city limits. In the next town
100 feet tall and could be seen around
from the distance. Some times you can hear it.
Whipping the air with red and blue striped by white.
Historic. Plaguing. Imperial.
It looks at us menacing. Trying to remind me of a time of taking and giving.
Now in it’s retrospect even in it’s prime it did less giving than taking.
In to the bacon. Fat of the dealings and darkness covered in Hoods.
In these shadows the sign stood, 100 feet tall.
It tells the Mexicans that their papers are cheap labor.
And Dominicans to sell the rice and beans. Beef or Goat.
And asks the blacks to move aside to never cross their moat.
Of asphalt and “clean streets”. As while they hear no gunshots in their sleep.
Asking the last of theirs that even remain that they had their chance to come across.
Had a chance to be a “dream”. Spirits demeaned and loss.
And it casts a shadow on my Hood. Casts a willing darkness on my sleeves.
Mention with whipping stripes but box of stars…and the sign only speaks when it’s patrols…pose on lights to ask for license and insurance, and the plates where good…and their was no busted lights.
This sign at the city limits I pledged to it once. But my papers are natural. And still I’m seen un natural. I’m not white. I’m not black. I’m not brown. Nor yellow. But my color for my sign is person……