Sermon

A sermon happens behind me.
Wearing a deep red hat and cow ears, a woman sits on a brown couch telling her life story to the barista.
The barista, a fine slender girl who wears her hair in a bun, shortly vanishes to serve a customer,  for while the café is so empty, it is no doubt currently in business.
She rushes to greet a customer who is, who has been, waiting casually by the counter, his fingers swiping around his phone like windshield wipers, not impatient, but understanding, as he waits for the girl to serve him.

1971. She repeats it like a prayer. 1951, 1961, 1971.
The years ratchet up.
8-47. "My baby. My one and only."
The patrons ignore her.
"I know what I can see. I see what I wanna see."

The one with the grey khakis describes the theory of race construction.
Race is not only a social construction,
It is one that serves to define whiteness, to help define ownership of the spoils of colonialism.

"Hey, hey, hey."
The woman in the red hat finally succeeds in getting Grey Khakis' attention.
The man acknowledges her straight away, as if his ears were, had always been, pricked to her mumblings,
As if she need only to have said that earlier to activate his built-in response.

She mutters nonsense, dribbles it down her skirt,
And he repeats her nonsense,
Obediently, like a command needing confirmation,
Or a phrase that doesn't compute.

Once the mumblings are over, he swivels back around,
Readying himself to retrace the ends of his broken conversation.

They go back to their separate lives.
His to his, hers to hers.