Jackson
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