Summer 1992 • Vol. XIV No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1992 |

After All

Let's say you're black and you walk in this restaurant and as you take your seat you realize you're the only one there darker than blue—the waiters and waitresses, the hostess and customers, even the cooks; all of them could walk into a snowy field and vanish—so you think No big deal, it's cool, no need to get into a Frederick Douglass kinda thing . . . . But soon the peekaboo sets in: you look up from buttering a roll and notice a middle-aged woman combing your face like a gutsy, low-flying pilot on reconnaissance and another lady with a headful of gray, greenish-gold, highlit hair begins snapping her glance at you and away, at you and away, as if some kind of suggestive cucumber were slowly emerging from your forehead and only she can see it. Then one old, bald, Burl Ives-looking guy just stares at you with something between a grimace and a yawn stuck on his face. Yeah, and you know he'd love to break into a little "Jimmy Crack Corn and I Don't Care" with his fat little lobste

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Check Outside

By Tim Seibles

Let's say you're black and you walk in this restaurant and as you take your seat you realize you're the only one there darker than blue—the waiters and waitresses, the […]

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