Murder at midnight.
Scarlet taillights drape
a bloody sheet over
the Oldsmobile’s
cold, green skin.

Undercover crickets
in the foggy pasture,
like tinnitus in
the night’s ear.

Haggard men hoarding
hate like rare coins,
break for gasoline
then churn up
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