The Real Estate Agent
Presumably he was new, didn’t know
the exact addresses, didn’t know
how Magnolia meets Simpson by Grand.
Strange. He stopped at each corner,
consulted that map. He was a mystic
searching for water with paper diviner.
Goddamn him!
Why did I realize
too late to say this to his face
he was hiding something?
(But it wasn’t the prison
he was hiding, not the psychiatric hospital–
we knew about these)
This man was hiding
an agenda, this man was steering
a social wheel:
we seemed too white
and he was steering us
behind around away
away from people of color
(he thought we wouldn’t like them)
toward $ in his greasy little pocket.
Goddamn the price
we still have to pay
for that marking map
that turned-back attitude
that wordless approval of hatred
this outrage
burning for him.
Van Zant has taught near-dropouts for 14 years and has written many other poems related to students in his alternative school–white, black and Hispanic (dysfunctionality knows no racial boundaries).
Copyright © 2000 Frank Van Zant. All rights reserved. {jos_sb_discuss:9}