It used to bother me—the way people
              would cut their eyes at us as if they knew

our story.  One white, one black, two men. 
              At first, no one regarded our coupling

as extraordinary.  Youth gave us skin
              to believe in and the cheapest of beer

to swill.  It’s acceptable to buck rules
              when you’re beautiful.  But now, when our

clothes are out of fashion and our hair is thin
              and grey, when one of us walks slower

than the other and the other waits patiently
              at the corner, now, people notice:

one white, one black, old men.  Our history,
              the tilt of our bodies in conversation

reveals a kindness that was promised
              but remains unrealized, a whisper

of high yellow, good hair, tan paper bag skin. 
              In New York, of all places,

down in the Village, two men pass us
              and in their sameness, in their whiteness,

one turns to his lover and says, What was that?
              I am briefly ashamed of our differences.

One white, one black, holding hands.  In Vidalia,
              at Harvey’s grocery store, two black elders

perfumed in spray starch and lavender
              stare us down the meat aisle until

even your shield of antibacterial politeness
              is penetrated.  Did you see that? You ask

in the parking lot and I take your face
              in my hands and say, Yes.  I am never
                                                    not seeing; It’s endless.

– Sjohnna McCray