They walled up that porch like a fort, ran surveillance-camera wire,

neighborhood watch blows up my phone like artillery fire,

when kids burn one on the street,

old girl builds a fire,

dirtbikes run hot, sub-bass rumbles low.

Would they call the cops on Rev. Hosea Williams, armored in overalls,

sipping corn with barbershop comrades, unbought and unbossed?

They whooped the Klan, damn right,

this street bears his name, like

freedom ain't the end of the line; it's a holy old road.

Sipping margaritas by the Black Warrior, he foretells the fall of the border:

stolen land, government overreach, social disorder.

He asks the lady with the chips

if she can take our order--

Desoto’s tongue in Mayan and cracker accents.

Granddaddy was a Union man, voted Wallace a couple shameful times,

breadline-burns on his skin, eviction-sting in his eyes,

tried to help sidewalk guys

survive white-flight and redlines.

He’d been on the wrong side of that fence.

He didn't trust bosses, generals, or presidents.

He trusted old-time folks.

Old-time folks.

Old-time folks.

We're just old-time folks.

His teeth gleam, dead eyes shine, hisses in the headset mic,

swings the Bible at the dopesick, broke, locked-up, not-right,

flicks his tongue at Black rage and

queer love, grins into the lights.

He'll throw you in the pit or put you to the lash.

He sat in the back pew, hair all wild, britches all torn,

death-wished, gaslit, scripture-whooped, stair-thrown.

He’d hurt and raged. Hostage love.

Snaking lies. Whiskey storms.

The pastor smiled as she smudged on the ash,

like, child, the Lord don't make no trash--

He just makes old-time folks.

Old-time folks.

We're just old-time folks.

Old-time folks.

We’re old-time folks.

Old time-folks.