Privilege is a white bird streaking the sky.

I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.
Am I a brain or a mind?
My friend puts his hand on a lamppost.
“Illusion,” he says.

We’re on a street of bars, music spilling 
from saloon doors, smell sweat and beer.
We step into the Theatre Lounge.
He orders a pitcher, which he swings 
onto our table, spilling foam from which a goddess 
could arise. She has skin 
like pearls, hair shot through with light.

We are deep into the night, eating pretzels, 
watching basketball on the silent TV as the jukebox blares. 
We are young and white and none of this is real.
Somewhere a bird dives toward the sea, as sun turns water to gold.

Song in the wind, a Kansas City wind rising
in shadow, snapping at dust like Satchel's curve,
hitter dazed on his heels, or a streaking blur
along the river, Cool Papa Bell sliding into second base.
Listen to the clean song struggling behind forbidden lines,
rising like Bill Foster's fastball or a Josh Gibson blast
disappearing in a thousand shirtsleeves and white
dresses, bleachers on a steamy Pittsburgh night.
Hear the song of young men, see them in old photographs
lean and smiling, eager with joy of leather and wood,
white lime on grass, dust popping from the bases,
hot summer wind in every city from Houston to New York,
Harlem to Mobile, beautiful and strong.

And free, at least in the game's sweet possibilities,
in opposition of muscle, heart and will,
in true equality of guts and mind and skill.
See them crowded behind the color line, see them in shadow,
cheer now as they emerge into light—
   
Judy Johnson and Willie "El Diablio" Wells,
      Oscar Charleston and Rube Foster,
          Buck Leonard and Buck O'Neil—

let their names become faces, and, prophetic as comets,
fitting as the night game lights or brilliant patterns in the stars.
Write their numbers and their fame. Let their faces blaze across the sky.