WATCHING THE GRASS GROW

Even Nat King Cole, so smooth
he became white in the eyes
of many, had his lawn manicured

to the tune of NIGGER
in the city where the angels
stay lost. His daughter Cookie

saw the mark and sobbed
all the way to school, her fancy
house and famous dad meaning

nothing suddenly. The grass
grew back so slowly, the shadow
of the long-burned word echoed

acrid on that lawn for months.
In the rich dark dirt it sounds
still: black, unforgettable.