we smelled the woodsmoke
before we went in
old timers sitting in chairs
by the potbellied stove
in worn jeans
and old ballcaps
passing a flask
with a thick dent on the side
eating potted meat and saltines,
mouths shiny with grease
Fat Mans Country Store
More from the author
Sunday Morning
she peels an apple
the paring knife slicing
long red ribbons
that fall on the counter.
I lick my thumb
turn the page.
there’s a faint hint of wood smoke,
logs...
