upstate lunch

What Doris was
was sandwiches & mustard
husband Joe drinking cold Michelob
Him with a bottle & belch at the table
beat up dungarees and missing teeth
Feral cats squatting his gutted & rusted bug
and his decrepit mitt in the shed
that smelled of cigarettes
Doris was thin cranberry
lips and big hips, jello-y elbows
and a dome of a sundress
What the table was
was a busy wood one with all of us kids
and the room smelling of cold cuts
an array of sliced meats and cheeses
displayed on sheets of wax paper
Doris’ husband’s hog in the yard
and his son-in law in from who knows where
with a beard like old scrub wire, a chopper
and talk of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young
His daughter bashfully highbrow and granola
And me with the roof of my mouth raw
from the scuff of the rustic bread