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I saw Emmett Till this week at the grocery store
By Eve L. Ewing

looking over the plums, one by one
lifting each to his eyes and
turning it slowly, a little earth,
checking the smooth skin for pockmarks
and rot, or signs of unkind days or people,
then sliding them gently into the plastic. 
whistling softly, reaching with a slim, woolen arm 
into the cart, he first balanced them over the wire 
before realizing the danger of bruising
and lifting them back out, cradling them
in the crook of his elbow until
something harder could take that bottom space. 
I knew him from his hat, one of those
fine porkpie numbers they used to sell
on Roosevelt Road. it had lost its feather but
he had carefully folded a dollar bill
and slid it between the ribbon and the felt
and it stood at attention. he wore his money.
upright and strong, he was already to the checkout
by the time I caught up with him. I called out his name 
and he spun like a dancer, candy bar in hand,
looked at me quizzically for a moment before 
remembering my face. he smiled. well
hello young lady
     hello, so chilly today
     should have worn my warm coat like you 
yes so cool for August in Chicago
     how are things going for you
oh     he sighed and put the candy on the belt 
it goes, it goes.

"I saw Emmett Till last week at the grocery store," by Eve Ewing, from 1919 by Eve Ewing, copyright © 2019 Eve Ewing. Used by permission of Haymarket Books.