Contact (A Poem)
Contact
Contact
The child's eyes
Innocent
Look up into his weathered face.
Into his lap she climbs,
Curious.
And curious
And innocent
She asks
"Obadiah,
Are you that colour all over?"
He reaches
He takes her small, pale hand in his,
Then turns his over
Shows her his palm.
"Yes, I am,"
His serious response
"Except for the palms of my hands,
And the place where the sun don't shine."
"Oh,"
Says the child,
Looking up again
Into his dark brown face
And then at her small hand in his.
White on black.
Hands touch.
Minds touch.
Man and child go separate ways.
And child
Never
Forgets.
Never forgets that black on white
The different and the same.
Never forgets the lesson learnt
That difference...
Is skin deep.
Comments
My parents were extremely open-minded people who treated everyone the same regardless of little details like skin color or sexuality.
This one is for Obadiah, wherever he may be now.