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.