July storms
a white-wood porch
the heavy drizzle
heat receding from the air.
We sat with just enough cover
we still felt a mist
from sideways rain.
The kitchen window open,
dishes clinking.
Mom at work.
Dad at rest,
watching the storm.
This small town kid
sees the big storm.
How powerful.
Does he know someday
he’ll get an education.
What will they tell him?
Mom shouldn’t be in the kitchen.
Dad has white privilege.
Son has white privilege.
The innocence was a lie.
He won’t believe it,
but everyone else does.
He will sit on the porch again,
forget all he was told.
This is his life,
watching a storm.
