Clark Park, Sunday.

I found a bluegrass band in the west
of a sick city.

"I did it! I'm responsible for slavery!" yelled
a white man to a black man, finger raised to god.

He laughed, and the men talked
heavy around him.

Hickory smoke and the smell
of burnt sugar.  The trash fire heaved

tin and plastic. The strings of a banjo, and smoke

passing through invisible bands of sun.  A boy
holding his mother's round arm, and an old

woman watching the kids play.