She was covered more than a nun,
 black as coal. I knew nothing of her,
  except she could be me
   by the blink of God
    and I her.
     Then I would trail behind him
      aware he is eyeing a colorful woman
       head to toe coveting her,
        she, poet, creator of goodwill,
         suddenly senses being opened,
          like a packaged commodity.
She doesn’t know I am a poet of prayers,
creator of goodwill too and I’m sorry.