 He strolled in with Amiri Baraka, decked out in a long, dark trench coat. Yasa Arafat's scarf, beret, made me think of Dolly, Black Panthers. Only he wasn't no painter, because he wasn't smiling like Romero Bearden. And he wasn't no panther, so I was told, but he was carrying poems. And the people were his politics. We all thought he might read a few.