My friends and I are downing dollar drinks
and gabbing about the possible
effects of lockdown on
symphony venues and
concert halls.
My attention keeps spilling over to a table nearby.
I am being called in by the baritones and
buttery tenors of the group of Black men sitting there.
Someone nudges me, asking about another round.
Someone mentions teaching classes online,
but I am drawn back to conversation
which bears no trace of the virus.
The men laugh into their plates,
forks still poised in their hands.
Each of them has something remarkable:
fists as big as coconuts,
a perfect plum of a knot in his tie,
an easy demeanor, leaning back in his chair,
intricate waves in his hair,
shoes with buckles,
a purple silk shirt.
I want to say to them all,
Come home with me and laugh as my father might have.
Teach me how to smile in my skin.