Author: Annika Bastain
When my family first moved to the South
When we were dirt poor
Even poorer than we are now
My momma
Would drive to Leeds
To the discount grocery
And buy rotten fruit and dented cans.
She and my aunts–
They were as poor as we were
Would bring an extra dollar
For the groceries to be brought to the car.
Old black men,
In old overalls and worn khaki trousers,
Faces fleshy and lined,
Would rock back and forth
In weathered gray rocking chairs
As sleepy as the Alabama heat,
Baking slowly in the sun,
Liveliness leaking out through the humidity.
They'd haul themselves out of the rockers,
Joints squeaking almost as much as the wicker bottoms of their chairs,
One of them looks at the other and says
"I don't want a lot of money. Just enough."
The other says "ain't that the truth"
And my mother nods sympathetically,
Knowing the truth of it all.
No teeth
No job
Maybe no wife
But probably kids–
These old black men would walk women's groceries to their cars
In exchange for a dollar or two.
They'd tip their hats and say thank ya ma'am
Like we were at a posh hotel instead of in
A baked asphalt parking lot,
Gray, with spiderweb cracks,
And as rundown as our cars.
The discount grocery went out of business eventually,
And my mother and aunts make more money now,
But I wonder
Still wonder
What happened to all those old men
Who tipped their hats and said
Thank you ma'am.