Alexandria, Louisiana 1967

My throat was dry that day,

unaccustomed as I was

to the sweltering Louisiana air.

Barely twenty and away from home, I waited

while over at Fort Polk, 

my young husband trained

for war.

At Woolworths, I slid onto a red vinyl stool

thin skirt sticking to my thighs.

A woman to my left -- her skin like burnished mahogany --

nodded, not looking, when I smiled over.

I picked up my menu as the woman put hers down, 

ready to order.

But the waitress strode past her and turned to me, 

pencil poised over her order pad.

I nodded to my left but the waitress

stood her ground

gum in cheek,

foot tapping impatiently.

I looked then and saw

veiled eyes that missed nothing.

You go first, they said. 

I ordered. 

First Place in Poetry, Write on the Sound Writers Conference 2019