Unwelcomes Now Welcome

He tells me the first dead body 
he ever saw was not 
in a box, but 
hanging from a tree. Seventeen,
 

visiting family down South 
when he learned that death 
turns a Black body gray. 
Likely July then too. Why this talk
 

here, at our union’s retirees’ luncheon— 
for just ten bucks, lobster! 
all the fixings, and a drink—where others 
are chatting back-whens, grandkids, travel?
 

Because we both escaped with our lives 
and not everyone who looked like us did. 
Most folks at the linened dining tables: 
Older white guys, like you’d imagine.
 

In front of their wives, everyone’s 
friendly. Even those who weren’t. Let 
bygones be bygones. One guy at my table— 
general foreman in my first shop—
 

can’t stop his nervous laughter. 
In front of their wives, we don’t 
bring up their violence 
that haunts us still.