I stare up into the dark granite face of the cop. A river of white roils around his horse’s flanks. Grown folks hang over barricades, shouting down the hooded red-faced men lapping at 20th Street’s banks. We trail mama and daddy back to the parking deck, Past air-conditioned skyscrapers, so proud and just. Ladies in hats gather the slanting shade of the confederate obelisk. Dudes in fades, girls in braids, voices hoarse, search for the bus.

I can change! I can change!

The scraggly men smoked cigarettes and scowled, salted in sheetrock dust, The wind whipping their long hair across the rebel flag, airbrushed on the rear window of the truck. I muttered something to you about white trash. In the frontseat, Granddaddy's easy drawl sharpened into nails. He clapped his cracked red hand onto my doughy leg: He said, "Son, you aren't any better than anybody else."

I can change! I can change!

It was like taking a breath When I admitted that: Guilt is not a feeling; It's a natural fact.

I can change! I can change! I can change! I can change!

Get loose!

I can change! I can change!

It was like taking a breath When I admitted that: Guilt is not a feeling; It's a natural fact.