White Man Dying

My mother and I walked streets of grimy 
buildings
emblazoned with signs of revolution.
Newspapers screamed out 
attacks on Americans
as we rode the bus to the hospital
where my father 
lay hooked to machines
breathing and eating through tubes.

In Iran 52 
hostages lived another day.
In Turkey three Americans were shot in the 
street.
The Shah left for sanctuary in Panama.
"Liberacion!" cried the 
walls of Amsterdam Avenue
and I thought, yes, the white man is dying.

My 
mother and I walked through streets
crowded with Blacks, Latins, Asians.
I 
wanted to say, look, mother,
see how the Third Wrold is rising
but her 
eyes filmed
with visions of aloneness.

My father sat on the edge of the 
bed
making plans to go South
his lower lip trembling.
I looked into his 
sea green eyes
eyes clearer than in health
eyes frightened into sight.
I 
looked in his eyes and I cried
for the white man, my 
father.