In St. Louis where my father drove
a sky-blue Chevy Suburban to cousin Larry’s
farm in Mascoutah for a half-a-side of beef
to fill our downstairs freezer with
oxtail, chuck and rump roast
& more flavorful like ribeye, T-bone,
short ribs, ground and stew meats
and not so yummy organ meats
like liver but not the suet which
his father-in-law picked up for hanging out
at the edge of their woods through a cul-de-sac
so three or four pileated Woody woodpeckers
could swing with the fat while he chewed
the same with his fellow outside dwellers
who moved out of the city after him
him after delivering a thousand times thousands
of newsprint to concrete corners
at stands which existed when
it was the only way to live
until he and my father’s mother-in-law
longed for natural country
near farms with squash patches
and cornfields and quiet
contemplating lives well and lived
under the same roof but different bibles
welcoming every friend for holidays
with fresh ham and turkey bought locally
like back in time and before my time
of wanting the same things to see
through binoculars over the bridge of
my nose which smells the taste of raspberries
& sweet corn and pie pumpkins baked down
in my kitchen after riding my bike
five miles to a farmer’s market
down a country road in my mind
where creation crows until I
hoe my soil and let gourds grow
like acorn, eightball, butternut and more
where my second nature gets to
from being deeply framed.