Your aproned Nanny
wiped a speckled formica table
near clean of its top—
delivered meat and potato salvation
with doting requests
like “Ready the table”
and “Is it all?”
In this little town
somewhere
between the next hill over
and our homespun street of dreams
she sung your name
from the back door stoop.
Her green-sheened jars
held her suspended
but perfect pears
as carefully as her knee
held you
jostling your schussle sweet self
relished as the chow chow
and nine-day-pickles.
Remember the annual festivals
their games of chance
spinning rides
and towering ponies
a whole leg up
left you touring the world
without leaving home.
