The Gate
Grandma was a gruff old bird.
When she went to a schoolboard meeting,
which wasn’t often, they’d be eating crow
and say it tasted like chicken.
Us kids would hang around
when there was nothing to do
just to see if there would be fireworks.
When Cramer’s cows broke into her garden
he was fixing that fence before sunset.
Her reputation pushed before her like a wave.
But I’ll tell you something else:
during the Depression there was a mark
on her gate and hobos would knock
on Grandma’s back door,
she would hand out a sandwich
to the ragged soul standing there.
I don’t think many people know that.
Gary Lark’s most recent collections are Easter Creek, Main Street Rag, Daybreak on the Water, Flowstone Press and Ordinary Gravity, Airlie Press . His work has appeared in Beloit Poetry Journal, Catamaran, Rattle, Sky Island and others. For more information, you may go to his website.
