Since I wrote a Frankfort and a Clifton poem, and I worked on a Midway one I had this idea that I would make a series of poems about small towns around here . This is the free write that came out. Still not really a poem-- need to do some serious line making and breaking, but I thought again I'd save it on here.
This is the only restaurant in town, but we all like
fried catfish, and fried green tomatoes, and country
fried steak—except Dad, who had a heart
attack five years ago and eats little bits off
everyone’s plate,
and looks sad
like someone shooed him from his mother’s kitchen.
We never eat anymore at places
with plastic tablecloths, even if they are the heavy plastic, easier
to clean, red checkered. It sticks to my legs,
already itching of mosquito bites and smelling
like the lake water.
I am uncomfortable, but it is summer and
the grease hits up with the air and
dances with old men’s cigarette smoke, and suddenly
my stomach hurts and I want to leave.
it’s not that I don’t like it, it just makes me sick.
fried food, and smoke, and sticky plastic
tablecloths and all the things I came from.
I love it there, but I can only stay a little,
eat a little, before I have to breathe.
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