The Final Ride

I see

Those photographs

Color prints

And feel a fear


I can feel

And smell

So much

Of what is there


The blazing

Orange heat

Black smoke

Clogging lungs


Burning diesel

Vinyl and chrome

I know those smells

But have never spelt the other


And for that

I thank God

And hope I never will

That we never will again


As I look at a photo

Of a bus

A scant few years before my birth

Darken southern skies

This entry was posted in American History, Poetry, Social Justice and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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