Murder at midnight.
   Warm, crimson light
      against the
         Oldsmobile’s
            cold, green steel skin.

Undercover crickets in
   a foggy 1962 field,
      screeching
         like white noise
            in the black gloaming.

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

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

                 —Rick Baldwin ©2018

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