Black Children at the Laundromat

They are so young,
full of energy,
eyes bright with excitement;

try to make some fun,
run about,
like flies make everyone dizzy,
get swatted down;

send me shy smiles,
though the name
they know
for me is Cracker.

The mothers, by contrast,
are tired, their tempers short,
hands all too ready to slap.

I can feel the tension.

These children will grow up not to trust,
faces dull and sullen.
They’ll expect to be ignored and put down.

Like a dog at the end of a chain,
they'll seethe in anger,
learn all the ways they can beg.

It is something I want always to remember.
I return their smiles.