Ma has rules for setting the table.
I place plates upside down,
glasses bottom side up,
napkins folded over forks, knives, and spoons.
When dinner is ready,
we sit down together
and Ma says,
“Now.”
We shake out our napkins,
spread them on our laps,
and flip over our glasses and plates,
exposing neat circles,
round comments
on what life would be without dust.
Daddy says,
“The potatoes are peppered plenty tonight, Polly,”
and
“Chocolate milk for dinner, aren’t we in clover!”
when really all our pepper and chocolate,
it’s nothing but dust.
I heard word from Livie Killian.
The Killians can’t find work,
Livie’s brother, Reuben, fifteen last summer,
took off, thinking to make it on his own.
I hope he’s okay.
With a baby growing inside Ma,
it scares me thinking, Where would we be without
somewhere to live?
Without some work to do?
Without something to eat?
At least we’ve got milk. Even if we have to chew it.
February 1934