at the bigoted signs
laying against a wall
this afternoon.
"Someone's throwing rocks!"
and without turning around
we turn in to the alley.
I gloat he dissects
the unintended consequence
of unrestrained emotion.
Old bricks quarantine us from
the few dozen old whites
and my tingling rage
realizes this individual
effects perspective of the whole.
But on the bridge we wait while
maybe a thousand of our own
march confidence and ideals
organized and orderly
toward tonight's tragic scapegoats.
I watch victory in number
counting faces not stones.
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