"Sherbet."
"The problem here is that--" I'm sorry,
"the problem here is that this isn't pretty,
the sort of thing which can easily be dealt with words.
After all, it's a horror story to set a Black man
with a white wife in the middle of a hot Sunday
afternoon at the Jefferson hotel in Richmond, Virginia,
and wait like a criminal for service
from a young white waitress who has decided
that this looks like something she
doesn't want to be a part of.
What poetry could describe the perfect angle of this woman's
back and she walks, just so mapping the room off
like the end of a border dispute?
Which metaphor could turn the room more perfectly
into a group of islands?
And when the manager finally arrives,
what language do I use, to translate the nervous emotions,
the yawning afternoon silence, the prayer beneath
is simple inquiries?
The sherbet which he then brings to the table personally just
to be certain the doubt stays on our side of the fence.
What do we call the rich sweet taste of frozen oranges
in this context?
What do we call a weight, that doesn't fingerprint,
won't shift, and can't explode?"