Ryfe Greenwood

A white truck,

A white man.

The color is not ironic.

A skinhead.

Short-sleeves in red.

Rage disfigured his face.

A street.

A client.

He belonged to neither.

My coworker feared,

as the nazi jeered.

Back and forth he raced in a second hand Porsche.

A threat.

A name called.

I demoted his decibels by closing my window.

His temper was hot,

following me to the church parking lot.

Was that an accomplice staged and surveilling this scenario?

A tree removal.

A wood-chipper.

Dust on his car, five houses down, invoked his uncouth tidings.

A curse.

A slur.

I kept my monsters quietly tucked inside.

Eat of his rot,

I could not.

The violent do not comprehend the silent.

A sunny day.

A nitwit.

Though the modern Genghis Khan exhausted his lexicon, I defeated him without uttering a sound.