Were it not for his silver hair, the well-thought-out words/ “kill more of em” the question of who made em growing deeper in a mind tethered to machinery, a mind invested in white as human, more than em could ever be. Were it not for the heaviness of this coronavirus pandemic now, I would not write this. In the morning I would smile again, put up love again, a fence... against memory. The morning light split Baltimore harbor, in the window where the sun saw me, spun itself one one-hundredth of a degree in space only it and I knew. As on the way to work, at the 7-Eleven, I smiled again, suspicious of suspicion, a brunette cashier as old as old can be when hate ages, stares at me as I pay for my coffee for my pastry for my news in the Sun for my pack of Kools for my cinnamon bun on the way to work where Attica melted, as a head of silver hair wished we all would die.