smith (and let’s give them the last word) writes in ‘summer, somewhere’: but here, not earth/ not heaven, we can’t recall our white shirts// turned ruby gowns. here, there's no language/ for officer or law, no color to call white.// if snow fell, it’d fall black. please, don’t call/ us dead, call us alive someplace better. well enough to plan around it. but i not always can. with adrenaline pumping, red, sweaty and tired i entered the audience with three minutes to go. and then the play was delayed maybe five, maybe ten minutes as other people kept pouring in. 