A riot is the language of the unheard. <br /> —martin luther king <br /> <br />John Cabot, out of Wilma, once a Wycliffe, <br />all whitebluerose below his golden hair, <br />wrapped richly in right linen and right wool, <br />almost forgot his Jaguar and Lake Bluff; <br />almost forgot Grandtully (which is The <br />Best Thing That Ever Happened To Scotch); almost <br />forgot the sculpture at the Richard Gray <br />and Distelheim; the kidney pie at Maxim’s, <br />the Grenadine de Boeuf at Maison Henri. <br /> <br />Because the Negroes were coming down the street. <br /> <br />Because the Poor were sweaty and unpretty <br />(not like Two Dainty Negroes in Winnetka) <br />and they were coming toward him in rough ranks. <br />In seas. In windsweep. They were black and loud. <br />And not detainable. And not discreet. <br /> <br />Gross. Gross. “Que tu es grossier!” John Cabot <br />itched instantly beneath the nourished white <br />that told his story of glory to the World. <br />“Don’t let It touch me! the blackness! Lord!” he whispered <br />to any handy angel in the sky. <br />But, in a thrilling announcement, on It drove <br />and breathed on him: and touched him. In that breath <br />the fume of pig foot, chitterling and cheap chili, <br />malign, mocked John. And, in terrific touch, old <br />averted doubt jerked forward decently, <br />cried, “Cabot! John! You are a desperate man, <br />and the desperate die expensively today.” <br /> <br />John Cabot went down in the smoke and fire <br />and broken glass and blood, and he cried “Lord! <br />Forgive these nigguhs that know not what they do.”<br /><br />Gwendolyn Brooks<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/riot-9/
