Shafro

　　 by Terrance Hayes

　　 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.

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