Savannah

by April Jones


Her kindness masked the nervous grasshoppers
in the leaves of an old Savannah Maple.
The freckles speckled across her cheeks
shimmered in the windless sunshine.
Bright remarks about Mrs. Butt’s boys
inspired laughter too tired to come out of my lungs.
Something about the ease of her mouth
made me want to stay in the this picture
all afternoon, until screechy screen
doors summon hungry children home
with yippy dogs at their heels.
The flies have finally turned in for the day,
leaving her apple pie untouched.
Old men rocking in the steamy evening air,
and the checker mats
still keeping score

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