Grandma's Picnic Table

Paint peeling, wood splitting,

flies swarming her trailer, sweltering heat

in that clay and lime town—

but, oh! the tart and bubbling rhubarb crisp,

the spicy-sweet hot mustard,

the savory scent

of the best, the best, fried chicken

any of us had ever eaten.

Poor—and rich—

all the difference

in the crinkle-cut corner

of her laugh-rippled eyes.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

For dVerse Poetics