Integration
Richmond, Virginia, 1955
He had been waiting in the booth
for half an hour, too polite to speak
out, to speak out loud to the waitresses,
busy with busywork, lips chattering,
puffed-up with conceit, trying hard
to avoid eye contact with him.
He was neatly dressed: black & gray
tweed jacket, white shirt, charcoal slacks.
A small Bible lay open on the table.
He had already read the menu.
But the smiles he had come in with
dissolved with tears he tried to hide.
I slid off the stool, picked up my coffee,
and sauntered toward the juke box
near where he sat. I said hello.
Asked him his name; what he was reading.
He stuttered Joe; mumbled something about proverbs,
The one who conceals hatred has lying lips.
Told him I was a preacher; wondered if I could
join him. He shrugged, said okay. I shouted
to Mabel, our waitress, to take my friend Joe’s order.
Postscript: Waffle House was among the first eateries
to integrate after its founding in 1950s Atlanta.