She purses her lips and surveys
her surroundings.
She knows something feels off.
A tension hangs above them
like a trickster fog waiting
for an inevitable crash.
She gropes around for a safe
handle, he stands still, hidden,
waiting for her to crash.
It must be satisfying to know
your country will be fine
so long as blacks don't
lose they minds,
my great grand father muses
as he carefully folds the missus'
pork tenderloin in crisp white
papers. Individually. Taking care
not to touch the meat.
"You washed you hands,
didn't you, boy?" she asks
nervously.
"Yes'm"
Being head-nigger-in-charge
is hard enough without
some nervous ninny standing
over you.
"Where's Charles? He usually
takes care of this." She wrings
her hands and looks around the
butcher shop.
"Mr. Jeffries stepped out and
left me in charge."
My great grandfather says this
more to himself than to her.
I'm in charge.
And you will be fine. You will
all be fine so long as I stay
behind this counter and do
what I'm s'posed to do.
"Anything else for you today?"
She shakes her head. 'That's all."
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