Suppertime, Summer 1990
She wilts her lettuce with popping
bacon grease and pulls a pone
of cornbread from the oven, steam swirling
a halo around her head and fogging
her glasses right up.
She calls her man and all them babies
come running ahead of him,
sunburnt cheeks and nary
a clean pair of feet to be seen.
And as their oldest granddaughter pours
sweet tea into jelly jars, he slips
his hands around her waist and steals
some sugar while their legacy
groans and covers their eyes.
2 thoughts on "Suppertime, Summer 1990"
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Sounds like a fine way to spend an evening.
Charming ending.
Happy LexPoMo
thirty-six years later
& it’s still going!!!
great work