Every day we bring fixings for soup
and put a big pot on to simmer.
We share it at lunch with our guests,
the family of migrants who have moved out from dust
and Depression
and moved into our classroom.
We are careful to take only so much to eat,
making sure there’s enough soup left in the pot for
their supper.
Some of us bring in toys
and clothes for the children.
I found a few things of my brother’s
and brought them to school,
little feed-sack nighties,
so small,
so full of hope.
Franklin
never wore a one of the nighties Ma made him,
except the one we buried him in.
The man, Buddy Williams,
helps out around the school,
fixing windows and doors,
and the bad spot on the steps,
so it never looked so good.
The grandma takes care of the children,
bringing them out when the dust isn’t blowing,
letting them chase tumbleweeds across the field
behind the school,
but when the dust blows,
the family sits in their little apartment inside our
classroom,
studying Miss Freeland’s lessons
right alongside us.
February 1935