In the Bookstore

Here I find refuge, though the woman
behind the counter look looks at me

as if I can't read, regarding me
as just another colored girl

who might steal her store
out from under her, who might

rip pages from paperbacks,
ruin hardcovers with rough

handling. But her suspicion
can't stop me, however she looks

at me she won't stir from
her chair, afraid as I'm afraid,

both of us moving but not
moving, me shuffling

through tight aisles,
her pencil tapping, tapping.

She waits for me to figure out
whatever it is I want,

will be glad to silently ring up
my sale, hand me my small sack.

But I'm intent on lingering,
shifting my weight from one foot

to another, taking book after book
in my hands, holding each one

a long moment before I replace it,
before I hand her the one I'll take

back with me to the Bronx,
where rumor has it no one reads

unless it's the New York Post's
daunting, garish headlines.

I'm 21, with twenty dollars and two
subway tokens in my pocket, greedy

for the life of the mind,
that energy, needing it enough

so when this woman hands me my change
I hiss a whispered thank you ,

make sure my eyes catch hers
for one second of indictment,

one moment where I'm right, she's wrong,
and there are still dollars in my palm.

Allison Joseph, Soul Train (Pittsburgh, PA: Carnegie Mellon University Press, 1997).