All Muscle and Eyes
by Skip Martin


Construction on the causeway
forced him to slow down.

Black men all muscle and eyes
dug ditches in white sand
and one hundred degree heat.

Don't stare she said.
It's impolite.

I could smell
salty waves flowing through
the car's air-conditioner. They looked at me hard.
Their broad flat shovels
shoveled loads of damp sand
from there to there.
That much sand must weigh
about one of me.

Don't stare she said.

And soon we were there.
I built a castle with a moat.
She applied more sunscreen
to my tender white back.
I cooled in a wave.
The sand stayed under my feet. At night I woke from a dream
of zebras running on a plain.
The condo's air-conditioner
was turned too cool.

I got up
and turned it down.

I caught my reflection
in the dresser mirror
and stopped and stared
at my moonbeamed face.

Though not for long. Impolite to stare.