The UPS truck bleats
and I raise the metal gate
for the brown truck with the brown driver
in the brown uniform
who will hand me brown boxes to stack
on the concrete floor of the dock.
We see each other every weekday
but we don't talk about
the unarmed brown man
who got shot in the back by the cops
or the other unarmed brown man
who also got shot in the back
by the cops, or the... well,
we don't talk about any of them.
We talk about the weather, the rain
or lack thereof, the distance
of the weekend.
But smoke is rising from a burning squad car
on a Baltimore street where the storefront windows
have been smashed in, and all I can do
is sign the digital tablet
and hand it back to him,
our hands never touching,
and lower the gate.