To the shame scratching neath

 
Mom and Dad and three
young daughters walk past
a row of white Easter lilies
surrounding the mosaic
courtyard of the community
center on Sunday morning .
The parents carrying a carrot
cake and a jug of lemonade .
The girls smiling shyly at two
middle aged women wearing
pancake makeup to cut
some years off and sucking
their teeth with expressions
changing like an iguana
camouflaging to a new
leaf with hoarse whispers
hinting of hypocrisy.
“Are you sure you fine people
are at the right place ? An African
church is just down the road . “
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“Follow Main out of town.
You can’t miss it.”
A small crowd of people
moved towards them
with a young teenage boy
in a crew cut wearing a pale
green polo shirt and khakis
jumping out and hissing,
“Even the president
of these United States
says you are bad people
who don’t belong here .
Go on back to whatever
shithole you came from.”
Dad lowered the jug nudging
his daughters behind him
as his wife bit her lip.
One of the women chided,
“I’m sure these nice people
just made an honest mistake.”
⠀
All heads turned at a man
riding a motorized wheelchair.
“What the fuck are you saying ?
A mistake ?  This gentleman
here is Sergeant Chris Jones.
The man who saved my life
in Afghanistan seven years ago.”
The soldiers locked welling
eyes and grabbed hands before hugging in a black and white
weave braiding bones, blood,
and skin celebrating the sanctity
of lives lucky enough to still
bear witness to a wondrous
world despite the insistence
of the ignorant to wrap
murdered albatrosses around
their red necks and piss on
the simple law of the land
that all men are created equal .
⠀