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