there is so much, he said,
in common between the
black struggle and the
brown struggle
the conversation passes
i nod inquisitively,
sinking into my seat
their faces mirroring
colours of the struggle
colours, of that knowledge
colours of the club
white bread on the table,
bleached and baked fresh
clear water fizzles,
soup steams.
silent, then a nervous
laughter,
we're happy to have you too,
he says,
and i say no that's fine.
i couldn't...
i couldn't.
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