by Ned Walpole

Guns stacked 
From floor to ceiling. 
Ranging from a 12 gauge, .270
Hunting rifle, AR-15,
revolver, They’re the prized
possessions. Cleaning the gun
instead 
Of the kitchen. 
 
Jacked-up truck whizzing by, but not
fast Enough to hide the rebel flag 
Plastered on the back window.
It screams at you, doesn’t
want 
To be ignored. You can try to explain
That it stands for something else, 
But it has a story that can’t be forgotten. 
 
Dirty hands, dragging snakes
From the woods. 
We’ll just cook that possum
For supper. 
 
Set the table. Ladies first. 
We have chivalry, we weren’t
The ones who killed it.

From a young age I was taught
To never have my 
Elbows on the table. To
hold The door for people.
Hats Off indoors. 
 
Sunday dinner after church.
Roast with collards 
And rice and carrots and rolls
With butter. Don’t forget 
The sweet tea. 
 
No one leave yet, we
Have to pitch in and
clean 
The kitchen instead of the gun.