jackson, mississippi

he sipped a glass of water
brushed a dark fist across his forehead
they used to live next door, he said
I don't see them much anymore

inside his son was working on the family business papers
he called it Frank Turner's Garden Bouquets
his son's son drove by in his yellow school bus
and made all the kids wave

it's not simple
where hate existed, patterns remain
the black neighborhood in Jackson
the white neighborhood in Brandon
no one's crying and few are tryin'
they'll sooner forget the struggle
than begin to understand

Felix lived out in Brandon
he looked kind of isolated out there in his house covered with gates and locks
but he said, I can make it here in the white part of town

the public enemy, for every falsehood you raise questions
people talking loud in Jackson
people talking loud in Brandon

no one's crying and few are tryin'
they'll sooner forget the struggle
than begin to understand

you can talk to yourself--what is the good?
you're isolated
no walls to cross, no need to cross, we're ok here
ok

so I finally sat down on the porch next to my grampa
and asked him why
30 years after the death of Martin Luther King,
blacks and whites didn't talk to each other much?
he said,
dialogue's not the question
we've got a home here, it's not that we fear
it is simple
no need to move, so why should we?

it's a circle in Jackson
it's a circle in Brandon

the black neighborhood in Jackson
the white neighborhood in Brandon

no one's crying and few are tryin'
they'll sooner forget the struggle

at home warm inside with no reason to revise
they'll sooner forget the struggle
than begin to understand