Rising Behind

We planned a
bar-be-cue to
help put Barry
in the White House,

bought a pig,
took it to a
black man in the
country to cook

meat, hash and
sauce. His plump
brown daughter
leaned over an

oak chip fire
stirring, her skirt
rising behind.

I stared, caught
her father’s eye,
turned pink.
“Republicans,

huh?” he asked.
I nodded. “Hope
it kills forty
of you,” he said.

 

Mother Was A
Customs Agent

Mother was a
customs agent
in San Francisco.

I remember her
high-button shoes,
black skirt to
her ankles, and
white blouse.

She carried a
pistol in her
purse. Once

she ran across
a railroad trestle
pistol in hand
chasing a smuggler.

She used to say
I want to put you
in my pouch
and keep you.