Self Portrait as the Professor of ...

Well, said the officer, as he hands my card back.
My dreads are clean, but are they too long?
My suit, a professor’s armor, does he consider it stolen?
He won’t say: Let’s see you talk your way out of this.
He won’t say: I bet your lady is white.
He won’t say boy, but we both know his knuckles itch
To spell it. It is night, and we are under the stars.
I know the one Tubman used to steer herself clear of
Perhaps this man’s Great Grandfather. I profess
To my students that she never lost a single soul,
She would arrive like moonlight, and ghost away
The field hands. You aren’t from around here, he says,
But what I hear is, there’s nobody around.
I know we are parked under the drinking gourd,
And suddenly, I’m not new.