brooklyn yuppies swim thru the streets of park slope
sweating beer and tequila as liquid as their parent's finances.
screaming loudly of their views on race, over the hip hop soul mixtape;
no blush rushing to his cheeks as he speaks as if slang bore him into an opinion.
his eyes catch mine.
and squints, adjusting to my black woman stare.
a glance that searches for a reason why black women like me
wait, with purses clenched, for this mood
to pass like an express train.
i shouldn't want to cut into his flesh with a purse
hidden knife, instead, i'll settle on my eyes as weaponry.
he shivers; this is no accident, and lowers his voice to
inaudbile level, where only his drink can hear.