St. Augustine, 1962

My brother and I wear cloaks of civility,
our restaurant manners, only a fraction short
of the regimented square meal
my father learned in the military.

I bite into the sour crunch of dill pickles
that wrestles with the bland indifference
of American cheese in my grilled sandwich.

A family that mirrors ours, except for
the chocolate color of their skin, enters.
Their little girl, scarlet ribboned
pigtails dancing, considers
the odds of winning a prize
in the gumball machine
that stands sentry by the door.

I imagine their day unfolding like ours,
a climb up Spanish steps into history,
an afternoon washed in sunlight,
building replicas of forts with wet sand.
Now, a family dinner, a magnolia scented evening.

The restaurant owner oozes his way over,
smiles, secures maroon ropes
across tilting aluminum stands.
"Sorry, he says we're closing."
The father, jaw clenching, points
to the sign that reads HOURS 5- 9 p.m.
It is now 6:30. "Look,” the owner stammers,
“I don't want any trouble.”

We're almost finished,
anticipate hot fudge sundaes.
“Let’s go kids." My father tells us.
“Seems families aren't welcome here."

He flings money on the counter
his Master Sergeant glare dares response.
I reach for my mother's hand;
watch gumball prizes
tantalizingly near,
urging risk.