You Don’t Have Tattoos

Humidity formed a thumb
that squished me
like an ant
on a Savannah sidewalk.

Your pumice breath
scraped all the calcified kisses
off my lips
before you planted
a new one on me.

Some days
the only difference
between cops
and gangsters
is the blue uniform.

The war never stopped.
Its remnants are visible
at Fort Pulaski.
The war is economic now—
fueled by prejudice.

I am fine
with brushing your hair
but I will scrub
the pots and pans
only if you cook.

copyright © 2023 Kenneth P. Gurney

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