I find myself stranded, dangling, isolated, unrepresented.
I am a woman, though I won't march this January.

I believe in equality amongst all nations, races, genders
although I have no argument for the lack thereof.

The outrage of vibrant young ethnic men and women
is not mine to share, my white skin paints me guilty.

I am poor, have been my whole life.
I am not mad about it, had I worked harder, read more, wrote more, even cared more, I might have enjoyed the spoils.

I realize there is a stratosphere where dazzling ebony dancers,
stained with dye, decorated in braids, colored like Amazonian royalty
move their minds through a dreamspace whispering the laws of tomorrow.

I do not have an access pass to this heaven.
I can not feel it,
hear it,
find it.
I see it, I  stumble upon it from time to time, only to watch it
envious.