The back stairs
The kids will run up and down,
Asking about that pie on the table,
Again,
While waiting for one more oven baked treat.
Pests of the best.
.
The great December sky holds us here,
Like nothing ever will
Ever again.
.
I usually lie
Saying it’s beef tongue
In chipotle sauce.
And the men will smoke in the yard,
Feigning responsibility,
While the hens cluck and brood.
.
Hiding the last of fall’s huckleberries,
In plain sight,
On a plain tablecloth,
Beckoning to kids,
Running in from the back door,
To see what happens next.
Shaken Rain 