The Crockpot
by David Bowles



Mother, I know you meant well,
Packing the little crockpot tight
With chunks of potato, whole carrots,
A slab of meat, a random bouillon cube.
You couldn't be home to cook a meal
And food stamps only stretch so far.

But when my brothers and I would tumble
From that hot, oppressive bus
To find your single-mom stew awaiting us,
We learned first-hand the simple bliss
Of bologna, government cheese and Wonderbread—
Sharing a bowl of chips and salsa
On the steps of that housing complex
That roiled with the poorly seasoned smells
Of unattended youth.





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

Copyright by Dallas Poets Community. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.