you breathed life into yourself
and carried the footfallen dirt
of your third world into this first one
knowing that the timbre and reluctant pace of your voice
will always be more revealing than the fingerprints
you bring on your brown hands,
the color that you hide in your pockets,
masked in a new heritage
that shines a light on petty and trivial pleasantries
instead of humble,
this now-useless thing you had remembered to keep

and because of this, you are left wondering
what else is there to do
besides hard work and simple devotion,
besides abandoning your old ways
and accepting this false heaven,
besides mastering the microscope words
and regurgitating them when the right ears are listening

and no matter how hard you try
the line that separates the color of your palm
from the back of your hand
will always be obvious.