Bleachers

Excited white sheets line-up
in regular suburban yards
riding storm-force gusts
that rattle picket fences.

Pale clouds scud, darkening
like imagined demons rising
camouflaged in pastel shades,
obscuring light.

Who’ll draw attention now
to dirty linens once kept under wraps,
soaked, scrubbed and rinsed
to preserve a respectable finish?

This town ain’t big enough
for a burning cross not to attract
attention in the early hours of wet
heat Mississippi nights.

Now stains are cause for pride
no longer secret zealotry;
bleach a negative stain
across once-dark blood.