You have pain
We have gain

I white fella
         See I got the lingo
         got the rhythm
         See I do good
         want the world to know how bad it was
         How good it is to strut those tears
         So I declare of myself—I am
         young black child from a generation lifted
         by light fingers and now returned
         home in extrusive elegies—each
         streaked with lines of pale horror
         and images of white beds
         White this White that and if
         I put white thoughts into black minds
         white images into black eyes
         white feelings into black hearts
         Isn’t that?     what it’s all about
         Isn’t that?     what it’s always been about
My words stake a claim on your pain
Skilled—I and others like me
mine this rich ore
add a little righteousness
a dash of policy
And at the end of reaction
—a snow-white alloy soft enough
to mould into sorry
A shape to be worn in pride
A work earning its due fee

You have raw pain
we make it pay