the sun is bright against your skin
something's not right;
you see them so clearly now

against the sun, they are dark:
four black silhouettes chasing
your shadow, screaming chink

you pray your pace doesn't betray you:
"chink!" they scream again

the bystanders blankly stare
at the darting shadows,
you wish you could think
through this confusion

you take one look at them,
just enough to make them bolt;
sometimes you have to
laugh in the face of racism