Driving to Midland for Thanksgiving
White clouds
white houses
white churches
white silos
white cars trucks and vans
white barbed wire fence rows
white dividing lines
white STOP signs.
White palms sweat white against the
white plastic receiver with the white sounds
of white voices, “Is she coming?”
“She can’t make it.”White hesitation.
“Well, is she black or is she white?”
“I’ll see you Wednesday.”-white click.
White lawns
white dresses
white china
white angels
white beds
white ziplocked turkey
white noise from white radio
softly, whitely ministering more white lies through white airspaces
white tissues blanketed in white snot as white as white oyster dressing
crushed under white cellophane garbage with my white tears and exasperations.