"If everyone around you is forced into the Bubble,
Then you don't need to wear a mask."
                                                           D. Trump

I wear an old 45 for skin.
Side A is the surface you see;
White and pale under our winter's skies,
But much darker by September.
Side A does a fine job
Keeping my entrails in.
I like the harmony, beat and rhythm of it.

Side B of my skin is harlequin,
A melting *** of mosaic colours
You can't see,
But if you listen,
My lyric is a palette of hues.

I was born
With white privilege;
Irish ethnicity at that.
Remember their holocausts!
Occupied, evicted, brutalized, lynched, starved, hedge-scbooled, and,
Refugeed on their own land,
And on and on, and so on
For seven hundred years.
These things were before my time,
But not my Granda's.
It's so very true,  I was born with white privilege,
But not with white entitlement.

For the sake of argument
Let's presuppose POTUS
Actually read the Bible.

Reporter: What's your favourite story from the O.T.
POTUS:    That David guy; when he grabs Bathsheba's *****.

Reporter: What's your favourite story from the N.T.
POTUS:    Pilate, when he washes his hands.

It's been two thousand years,
But here we are again.
An innocent dark-skinned man
Was lynched,
And it engages and enlightens our world.

Let's not make this a habit.

And Pilate's here too,
Cowering in ******'s bunker,
Washing his tiny hands,
Blathering: I'm not Responsible.
That's what truth is.

I watched the bus drive down its route
With all kinds of fares on board;
Heading to some stop;
Each on a personal journey,
As important as any you've got.
The cord will pull,
The door will open
To let some traveller off,
As another steps into the bus.
On and on,
On and off,
They travel on their routes.

I used to ride a bus,
And I knew this way back then;
Then I forgot for far too long, that
I'm still journeying friends.