in the morning we walk through this tent city,
a mowed lawn ringed with beds of tulips,
the fragrance of lilacs hangs in the air,
a black security guard listens to his portable radio.
we chat while the dog methodically clears the area
of left over crumbs from last night's pizza party.
I'm not sure what Naropa looks like without racism,
nor do I know what it looks like anywhere.
we don't live in that world.
I only suspect that every sleeping student is white,
guarded over by a lone black man listening to his
he has been there all night and is ready to go home.