the beach is so white, and the metro is so white, and the hotel is so white,
Until you look below, at the sellers and the drivers and the washers,
And you see that the blacks who built this country
Are still in its foundations;
Their backs, its bricks and mortar,
Their souls, the bloodstreams of its hilltop homes.
Long after the mansions’ owners are gone, down to town to work or play or eat,
the blacks keep these houses on life support,
chugging patiently through their vast veins,
sweeping, sweeping, sweeping.