Murder at midnight.
   Orange light
      glowing against the
         Oldsmobile’s
            steel, green skin.

Crickets hidden in
   a foggy, 1962 field,
      morbidly screeching
         like white noise
            in a black ear.

Haggard men hoarding
   hate like old coins
      pause for gasoline
         then churn dust
            up from bald tires.

Tomorrow at the bank,
   agency, classroom,
      factory, church
         and precinct,
            they will call
               Jesus a friend.

                 —Rick Baldwin ©2018

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