Holy Ground

At night, I often roam around the so-called shady side of town. As I blend in, the people flow in places decent folk don't go. I've come to know a face or two and sure some recognize me, too. I fantasize about their lives, detecting some hubristic vibes. I ponder how they came to dwell in such a place, akin to Hell. I wonder if they're here to stay. For surely they weren't born this way. Perhaps some came intentionally, escaping lives of misery. Too grim was their reality, so here they found serenity. They'd rather deal with snotty glares from folks who don't know why they're there, than parch in various degrees of social thoughts and tendencies to view a dog better than thee, simply because they're black, like me.