Will’s House by Martha C. Wallace
Pla-ploop, pop, pop, bloop, bloop…
the coffee percolator sings.
Sssst, pop, pop, ssst
the bacon sizzles a hot reply.
Hot sticky cheese bubbles over the sides of the toast.
Buttery grits pop and boil.
Country music singers wailin’ and bemoanin’ love, life, and country livin’
drift from the kitchen radio to upstairs rooms.
Grandpa taps the tips of his shiny black shoes.
I rush to get the homemade peach and strawberry preserves from the pantry,
and grandpa’s favorite coffee cup .
First I blow, then sip the spicy and fragrant sassafras tea that Grandpa makes just for me.
Grandpa sleeps downstairs to protect his house-
no one was “comin in heh” he’d say.” My family’s gonna be safe heh.”
In the South’s cotton fields,
beautiful, white blossoms transform, turning crimson,
like the sharp cuts that the bracts made on my grandfather’s hands
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