At the storefront
The old man sat with feet propped up
gumboots scuffed through the black rubber
In his twisted fingers he held a needle
plying it through a patch spread over a torn net.
Overhead, a cloud pregnant with rain thickened
against the backdrop of a periwinkle sky.
This, he told me, is how we always done it.
The way my daddy done it. My mama
she brought him sourdough bread n butter
bread she made from her own starter
butter she beat from our own milk.
I miss them days. Nothing like ‘em.