Ham Biscuits

Don’t promise me when you know,

I know,

there are no guarantees that the

mountain leaves

will still cling to trees if we drive

up this weekend. A weekend is a

hope and a promise; a date when

they promise to send you a check.

Did you ever wait in a place for

someone

to meet you? For someone to pay

for the work you did for them

outside or inside? Then you find

there is no point of driving to the

bank.

There are days I wish I can give

what I

gave before, but it seems change,

not a dance, sweeps us off our

feet to ballrooms where the rich

store furniture, and the viola

popped a string four decades ago.

I know

she is gone, and promises cleave

like a hearbeat when a teen still

believes this relationship is a

forever

kind of love only to find

promises kicked aside in the sand.

But

better than Saturdays with hot

ham biscuits in a basket

and people gathering for the game

in a time when Corona had no

name, my boys stay with me.

Only

now do I know how much I

need

my boys with me after she …

Long after the dance is done,

and jelly shoes are stored away,

I

need

ham biscuits in a basket on a

football Saturday.

For John and my son