A virtual route of creative and cultural exchange
Blindness
Their identikits are a mystery.
I couldn’t recognize them
by the reflection
of the wind
Nor by the sensors
On my blind stick.
They walked by me
with sympathy.
“Your son looks like you,”
one of them said,
leaving me
on the pavement of silence.
What does he look like?
Did he like it?
What do I look like?
What is the meaning of the identikits?
Why can’t I
have a simple answer
for a simple question?
What is the difference between
white and black?
