Here, my friend

Here, my friend, is a space of

White light covered in black text.

But to you it is more than just a good

Song on the radio that I am playing for your

Cousin who was from the Bronx--or Brooklyn--what's the

Difference to a white kid who knows

How it feels to jump into a wagon

Push the feet down, down, down

Into the cold and rough and

Sometimes prickly-smooth corn?

I supposed that it made very little difference at all to

The man on death row. Or to me. Or to you.

If you wanna know the truth.