****** at midnight.
  Warm, crimson light
    against the
      Oldsmobile’s
        cold, 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.