I sat on my porch watching the day pass.
Down the street, in a white picket yard,
anger forces an acrimonious rise in volume.
A part of me wanted to call the police to restore order
But my privilege allowed me to snapshot and assess.
Clearly they were having difficulty communicating,
But that doesn’t mean they deserve to die
because they want to feel heard. Temperature cooled
Like air conditioned souls validating the issues.
I hate that my racist thought got afraid first
Reason correcting my reaction. Guilt, shame, sorrow.
I breathe deeply the breath of their frustration blowing
Volcanos and whispers with wide gesticulations and relaxed stances
I want to be raw like that when I become angry
But I have an unreasonable amount of anxiety
That leaves my outrage in my back pocket, hidden from view.
I wish them peace as I retreat into my home.