In the Colored Waiting Room, by Hammond Wylie

At the dentist's, when I was a little boy,
I waited with our maid.
She said,"Sit down Pup; be still."

In the Colored Waiting Room
the magazines were tattered.
I had seen those magazines before
in the other, cleaner room,
another time when I went with Grandmamma
to the dentist.

This time the room smelled funny,
like medicine and sweat.
There were colored boys and girls with their mamas.

And a white boy I knew from church was there.
Ricky Jones.
He said his maid Cortez was a nigger.
He said Margaret was a nigger too.
I told him she was not and decided not to like Ricky Jones anymore.

When we left the dentist's office,
we went to my father's drugstore,
up the block,
here I proudly showed off my new teeth
and drank a Coke for being such a good boy.

As we walked home, down Pressley Street
I asked, "Margaret, are you a nigger?"
She said, "No. No one is a nigger in this world."
I'm colored, like the door says."

I was satisfied with this
and asked her about bumblebees.