white man's burden

White Man’s Burden

It has stopped raining; the barrel in the yard is full
of soft liquid, but I’m not thirsty. Look into the barrel
and as I vainly smile at my own image, a delayed
raindrop falls; my face breaks into bits; scoop them
up put them back in place, minus my clichéd grin,
which sinks to the bottom, as residue of banality and
false pride. Panzer clouds, torpedoed by sharp light,
disperse; there is sun, glorious and nude, expecting
applause, too late in the afternoon for that, my friend.
But I’m cold will stay here for awhile warm my face,
and say sorry for all my misdeeds, I’m white and has
a lot to answer for, even when I sit in the sun, to get
a deep tan I end up looking like a lobster thrown into
boiling water; so let me atone for past future sins.