Donald Krieger lives and writes in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
To hear an audio recording of this poem, visit this link.
White Out Three Times
By Donald Krieger
After the wedding I puked,
then slept in the bushes. At first light
I drove east, no good bye, the sun
bright as a bomb. By eight
it was snowing. By ten
I was alone running sixty
in the left lane, the others
behind slow trucks or on the shoulder.
This weekend a white boy
drove into the crowd
and killed somebody. Other boys
with credit cards, K-Mart torches,
mommy’s clean muscle shirts, chanted,
You . . . won’t . . . erase . . . us.
Out on the back porch reading poetry and watching the hummers. I did enjoy this poem very much. Keep ’em coming.