Song for the Old Ones by Maya Angelou

My fathers sit on benches
        their flesh counts every plank
        the slats leave dents of darkness
deep in their withered flanks.

They nod like broken candles
        all waxed and burnt profound
        they say “It’s understanding
That makes the world go round.”

There in those pleated faces
        I see the auction block
        the chains and slavery’s coffles
the whip and lash and stock.

My fathers speak in voices
        that shred my fact and sound
        they say “It’s our submission
that makes the world go round.”

They used the finest cunning
        their naked wits and wiles
        the lowly Uncle Tomming
and Aunt Jemimas’ smiles.

They’ve laughed to shield their crying
        then shuffled through their dreams
        and stepped ‘n’ fetched a country
to write the blues with screams.

I understand their meaning
        it could and did derive
        from living on the edge of death
They kept my race alive.