Injustice but a word that was to be tossed around—
a swirl of colors in a pot that would not melt
the ingredient that would be but shouldn’t be but—
so quiet now are the voice of the people

A distance from Chicago but what does the heavy eye notice?
To have come to a fork in the road—
to take it.
Who is woman to have a voice?

Glamorous dresses and neatly-ironed suits
these clothes have heads and the heads have—
eyes; they glare.
The question is unspoken but all the same.

“Who is this woman to have a choice?”
I am Diane Nash and who are these people—
who glare and stare angrily at their exclusivity
slipping, slipping, slipping, away?

Who leer and mutter,
“Insolent negro.”
and turn their backs and think
“That worthless nigger.”

But I am Diane Nash in Nashville,
On these city hall steps, I ask you
So boldly as the ambience seethes in the light—
But one question, Mr. Mayor:

“Do you feel it is wrong
to discriminate against
a person solely on the basis
of their race or color?”

So I defy the crowd of glares
The silly stares of those who cannot see that
inside—my heart too, beats,
a regular tempo of glorious life.

Mr. Mayor knows it is wrong.
And he responds in such manner
a nod to equality and honor;
A man of true faith.

Three weeks from today,
Lunch counters of Nashville
would be free of segregation
for any – whose heart beat on.

The counters are here to have seat on
that all blacks and whites could eat on
that every, every heart could beat on
solemn rights that no man could cheat on.

Thus a half a decade in the future
I see a bright and joyous balance
Not quite paradise but not a hell
A pot with love warm enough for melting.

Facilities where the only segregation
is— men’s room or women’s room.
A time when discrimination
Fades
Away