150. MY SYNOPSIS

MY SYNOPSIS
Could you have passed for something else, had they let you?
Like a black man in a yellow skin, I feel my supposed
whiteness, even now, letting me down. These
Earthlings, after all, only have a few colors of their own.
Their tall sky they claim as blue - while their deepest
space they insist is black. Their yellow sunlight then
turns to white and then orange as it sets. No one
ever explains that, either. Storm clouds, always dark
and foreboding, are omens of bad things to come;
yet their storms and rains bring flowers and scent.
How odd they must feel, if challenged by these things.
-
That Riddle of the Sphinx they always talk of,
it really tells me nothing. How many legs does
on really need to stand on? From eggs, they gather
food, while other eggs they allow to their fruition -
bringing further life. Life like this then multiplies more
life itself - food/life - in some self-sustaining elegy:
a slow song they all must learn, a melody that haunts
and lingers, a skippy tune tune they eventually all learn to sing.