Now that my afro's as big as Shaft's
I feel a little better about myself.
How it warms my bullet-head in Winter，
black halo， frizzy hat of hair.
Shaft knew what a crown his was，
an orb compared to the bush
on the woman sleeping next to him.
（There was always a woman
sleeping next to him. I keep thinking，
If I'd only talk to strangers. . .
grow a more perfect head of hair.）
His afro was a crown.
Bullet after barreling bullet，
fist-fights & car chases，
three movies & a brief TV series，
never one muffled strand，
never dampened by sweat——
I sweat in even the least heroic of situations.
I'm sure you won't believe this，
but if a policeman walks behind me， I tremble：
What would Shaft do？ What would Shaft do？
Bits of my courage flake away like dandruff.
I'm sweating even as I tell you this，
I'm not cool，
I keep the real me tucked beneath a wig，
I'm a small American frog.
I grow beautiful as the theatre dims.