Pa pours strong ale
With weak arms
Ma’s road-map hands
Draw elixir from the
Free-range hair atop
Free-range kids
Dodging tired stares of
Full-shirted Aunts, as
Uncles palanquin mounds
Of fire-basted love
To the plates and
Drool-tongued dogs
Taste the warm air
With cold opportunism.
Sunday’s football briefly
Upstages, then carries
On, mostly unwatched
From its wall, one of four
Upon which the
Slouched roof rests.
The barn-board table
Takes all of these things,
Keeping them quietly
Amidst its rings.

Bryson Thomas