When I was young and untamed,
I dressed in feathers and leathers,
founded my own tribe,
and streaked my face in terra cotta.
My neighbor and I were the palest redskins in the asphalt flatlands,
suburban savages.
We tunneled through the brush
in search of rabbit holes unknown and unseen.
We had the fire inside,
but no elders to feed it.
Still, it was one moment of a few that I struck upon gnosis,
and my shadow knew exactly whom it followed.
Were we just a two-child minstrel show all along?
Was it appropriate?
Did we appropriate?
Am I picking at the smallpox scars?