"Beauty," A Piece for the Brothers

There's nothing more beautiful than a
brown-skinned man with a
large pair of work-scarred hands.

Whether he's wearing a headband, a
hardhat or a tam, he's a TEN
I'm saying.

And you
all know what I'm meaning;

I ain't playin'.

When he walks into a room
parleying (as in parlez-vous)
and swagging in a pressed pant,
black tie matching and
cologned up luscious...

What's a girl to do but be abducted,
get carried away or flustered?

I'm disgusted that the
whole room revolves around his
well-to-do groove, how his
coy smile can grab a gal and
change her whole mood;
so smooth.

Ooh brother...
I am just so sick of you;
and don't you write me no prescription.
I would rather have the blues.

When you see him coming through
a bit of you from old times
comes alive;
I mean a pantomime from
land before time
when everything we did rhymed and was
kissed by the sunshine and
watered by melon rinds and
dried in the moonlight.

Good God,
I want to thank you for his
posture and his pout,
for his culture and his clout,
how he sticks his chest out
when he's proving what he's about,
how he growls instead of shout,
how you know he's working hard when his
tongue hangs out.

It's the most beautiful thing in the world,
in the world to see a brown man
hustling for his girl
in a time of observers and
hurters and silly fools
who couldn't find themselves
if life came with a map
and a full set of marked tools.

I'm just saying,
I wrote something good for you.
You ain't slinging or gang banging.
You buying your babies shoes.
You ain't laying at home complaining.
You working to pay the dues.

Hey baby; I'm not confused.
I'm your woman.
I KNOW you.

I think you're beautiful.

-T. D. James-Moss