“Six bells, three o’clock,
time for Popeye Theater”

Me, Skinny Boy Hill,
stretched long and lean
on our pick-pocked sofa
(where I yam what I yam. )

Mom in the kitchen;
pinto beans, kale, or string
beans seasoned with salt pork.

The steam went,
ssit-ssit-sssssssssssss…

Eight bells,
dad was home.
The meat hit the pan.

The Crisco went;
crackle-poppa-crackle…

heavy odors,
beautiful illusions.

Today, I cooked collards,
fried up a chicken breast,
crackle-poppa-crackle…
ssit-ssit-sssssssssssss…

But
I can’t find my way back home.

06/14/2010

Author's Note: sentimental sap day

Posted on 06/15/2010
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