Denying
a Destitute Destiny
by Marty Reeder
Over-Accultur-Rated[1]
I’m not the rogue you take me for
But soon, if pressed, conversion looms.
Just ‘cause my accent hints of slur,
I’m not the rogue you take me for.
Dark-skinned does not require a cure,
Nor does a culture need a stir—
I’m not the rogue you take me for
But soon, if pressed, conversion looms.
To Blame[2]
My locker partner’s iPod’s gone—he blames me.
My teacher’s missing my work---he blames me.
A decoration’s lost from the neighbor’s lawn—he
blames me.
A small Padre paycheck makes food shirk—he
blames me.
The prinipal’s mad from bathroom vandals—he
blames me.
The friend says his record comes from peers’
scandals—he blames me.
The register at the school’s bookstore’s left
unattended—I blame me.
Note on
a Cash Envelope[3]
Many apologies … but, hombre, geez,
Lock the register, Señor … eh … Mister!
I’m no rogue, in spite of my brogue,
But I’d ‘a been blamed anyway, get what I say?
So what I was-slash-became, might well be the
same.
But I’m beatin’ the system, a renegade
Christian,
‘Cause I took it, sure, (it’s what I’d ‘a been
blamed fer)
Now I return it—no shopping spree burnt it—
And you’d never have guessed, it’s back with
interest.
Leave me with few options, ‘cept crime, drugs,
n’ guns,
And I still can’t shake … well, my own, decent,
self-make.
