All the windows were open at noon by Wayne’s mom
with a bright banquet on white rock mesa near a huge comedor.
A cathedral of ham and potatoes, and a pueblo of boiled cabbage, onions and tomatoes,
pastures of pinto and piebald beans, grits, sausage and bacon,
cream in a pitcher, apple pies and milk.
All on extra platters, handy for seconds.
Bandana napkins stuffed in our necks.
Sun annealed the roof, baked the table
and simmered an idea of solar siestas.
This was dinner— supper was at twilight
and you didn’t eat anywhere near as much,
but told more old stories.
It was life-enriching, both for the body and mind.
We were accommodated—ready for the biggest siege.
