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.