In honor of the grand opening following the January 9th, 2026 fire
1.
Daddy never bought anything for himself
except the necessities:
folgers coffee, Kentucky’s Best tobacco,
and that blue Honda Shadow one tax season
when he made his common-law wife mad.
I was the youngest of the bunch,
which meant I was the only one brave enough
to climb on the back. My helmet too big
as I clung to my blue-collar father.
Daddy drove me to Mama’s side of town,
parked his saddle bags by The Frosty-Ette.
We didn’t know how to talk to one another back then,
and we never learned. He ate a banana split.
I topped it with the cherry from my hot fudge sundae.
2.
Papaw picked me up
from the bank parking lot
where us kids with our weekend bags
gathered at 6pm every other Friday.
Mama busy with her white nose,
Papaw with his billfold.
His silence drove me
to that crickety picnic table.
My mouth sticky and hungry
foamed with whipped cream and nuts.
Mama still in our cigarette hole burnt home,
her mouth dry and wide,
too sleepy to be sorry she forgot the time.
3.
Mama, with her darkened eyes, hushes, and bags
would grab me and sissy
before the sun touched the earth
waking the man of the house.
Our breath quietly fogging up the car windows
’cause we knew the starting of the engine
would be followed by the man of the house
running out the front door, his chest bare,
shouting after us, his fists grabbing at the door handles.
Mama only ran him over once
and none of us ever learned our lessons.
I learned those early mornings always meant
lunch from the shack with the kind smiles.
Mama hid us in the graveyard where
we got our bellies full on her favorite order,
“One large hot fudge sundae with extra hot fudge
and some cheese fries, please.”
4.
My sister and I are laughing
with the sunroof open
as we pull into that familiar gravel parking lot.
We sit on the hood of my Toyota Camry
eating our favorite ice cream.
We watch as people gather ’round
that small, screened window, cash in hand.
The cashier knocks on the window to get someone’s attention.
Cigarette smoke circles us. Somewhere a boot stomps into the gravel.
A white paper bag is placed on the ordering ledge,
“Honey, your food’s ready.”
5.
I take the man I love
to that weathering shack.
We order a plain vanilla cone
and a hot fudge sundae with whipped cream, nuts,
and a cherry on top.
“Do you like cherries? Here have mine.”
I tell him, “I know it doesn’t look like much,
but this is home.”
