by Sharon Hudson

Papa spent long hours working daylight to dark.
Standing behind a mahogany counter,
Selling liquor and sandwiches
Where he met Mama.

Grace Irene, raised in the country - no dust on her.
Leaving cows, chickens, and dirt-poor parents,
She took to the city and never looked back.

An immigrant from the old country,
Like the size of her thighs,
that she didn't wince at hard work,
Was the combination for him to marry.

Sundays, Papa would take Mama out of the city.
Back to the country, the dirt roads,
Showing her how to drive.

There he had the best advantage to watch her.
Arms browned from working in her flower garden,
Wind petting her black hair, the cotton print dress
Raised just enough.

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