sat at my favorite table
in the corner our my favorite
soul food cafe,

greeted as always by the resident fly
that always manages to sneak inside

and hover 'round my head making
what it thinks is sweet sweet music

not much different that the way you
hover over me, the melody of your womb

trying to make me sing all the right notes,
play all the right recitals,
catch all the right cues

on stage when i'd rather be myself
instead of posing as my mama's protege

buzzing around in pre-select circles
in gathering that showed much, but
never told the true Hollywood Story

of your Black Shirley Temple,
the darling child who cannot mix with her own kind

and now that i'm all grown up, i realize
the fly accepts me just for who i am,
and treats me like part of the family

© 2004 cynth'ya lewis reed
All rights reserved

Cynth'ya Lewis Reed at The AuthorsDen