White Out

George Floyd murals pop up around the world, from Syria to Los Angeles |  Dazed

for George Floyd:

by Bob Kunzinger

I drive speeds to make color disappear and cops
never pull me over. Buy me drinks
and turn me loose at three am;
they never notice. Never catch me. Blow hard
into some tube—I’ve seen it,
haven’t been asked, ever. I loiter
in malls, linger too long outside
some convenience store; play music loud
along the strip, midnight, trying to hook up
with some woman

both of us hold up traffic. Officers
never suggest we move along, never notice
my brake lights are out– all they see is white
and polished chrome. Old women walk ahead
home from the grocery relaxed, worry-free.

Clerks at night don’t eyeball me up aisles
I can pump then pay
I can try it on
I can move through the mob, wander

unsupervised. Understand how unimaginable to question me
when I ask for change without buying a blessed thing.
I am armed with my ancestry; I am a card-carrying Caucasian. I am
unnoticeable on 95 North; this marks me as Everyman.

If someone asks me for the time, she asks
“that man,” Not “that white man.” I have never been “othered.”    
                                          

White is a given. I am never modified.
I am hardly ever described at all.
I have always been allowed to make eye contact. I could         
                                               

always curse and complain. If I say “I know what it’s like,” I am                                                

most likely lying. If I say “I can’t breathe,” I am given oxygen.

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