The Voices of the South at Suppertime

Drawn out vowels hang heavy
in air already thick with moisture.

Sweet as pie. She don’t have the sense
God gave a June bug! Bless his heart.
Laws, darlin’, use some butter in that cooking!
That dog won’t hunt, except perhaps around the table.
Tuck your shirt in
and button up girl; you ain’t a hussy.

The profligate use of ain’t.
Fixin’s and suppertime instead of appetizers and dinner.
One more cup of sugar in that tea to reach the perfect, syrupy
Sweetness in the glass that accompanies every meal.
‘Mater sandwiches spread with mayonnaise, salt, and pepper.
Banana puddin’ with no ‘g’ to speak of,
or at least none you can hear.

The voices of the south at suppertime.

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