And then sometimes I wonder if ol' John Henry would look at his sledgehammer collecting dust
in the corner of the room
(in the corners of my mind)
Shit. I am tired.
I know the folklore as well as I know the
folks who dwell in the city of Chicagoland
racing against a steam powered hammer
the closing of schools
the closing of minds
the closing of legs
(you pray because, just what the fuck are you sposed to do with that baby?
You're a baby yourself.)
And I try not to get mad when I see Flaming Hots, high fructose purple drink
at 8am on this bus-top; It's cold.
We are tired
We are weak
but we are strong.
Depressed minds over sharing on social media
your disappoint and endless selfies
that annoy the shit out of me.
Finding the right angle in the bathroom
Are you sure you want to post? Yes.
upload that pain
for all the world to see, with a caption befitting him and her and her and him.
Oversharing. But then I think,
who else will celebrate you? Its always open season on little black girls.
Big ones too.
But then, through my annoyance of terrible images
(uploaded by us)
you decide whether or not to click Like
or simply look over the photo again.
And that's when I notice the all mighty powerful hammer propped against the wall.
Though she's mad and wants to live a life like she sees on VH1
I ask her, why bother being a muse to the worlds bullshit
When you have that mighty hammer right behind you.
Replace the selfies, with better images I beg you.
Folklore says this old hammer killed John Henry / but it won't kill me.
that was my chant, growing up here in Chicago.
I sang songs about John Henry as a child
replacing the lyrics
this old Daley segregationist legacy killed/ but it won't kill me.
Now pick up that sledge. For you are the victor.