Path

I am four
Playing in the
Warm red wet earth
Of northern Louisiana
By the Red River summered
Down exploring with my black
Friend Beau who forty years later
My elder sister tells me was white
But his mother was black as she
Turned black in reaction to the
Sun which seems strange to
Me and I muse on our lame
Perception of reality as we
Tend to see and hear the
Things we want to see
And hear so I tend to
Discount all history
Anecdotal or even
Statistical sense
Numbers lie as
Easily as what
Words convey
Leaving me
Crouched
In the red
Earth by
The Red
River
Wondering
Just how reliable
Our perceptions are
And is reality a shared
Perception we share
With those who see
Things from our
Position which
Makes our
Views
Relative
To ourselves
In which case what
Is consent between us
But a lucky overlap which
We may later remember as
It suits our current mood
So tolerance is best as
One worries where to
Put the soup spoon
While another can
Only see the knife
And fork as the
Weapons at
Hand while
I am only
Four at
Heart
Digging
With my
Mother’s
Tablespoon
In the red earth
By a river that
Runs like
Time
I know
Not where.