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Wine

By John I. Blair

My parents were young,
Spring-green as willows
And recently wed.

In Quinlan, Oklahoma
They rented a house
With pale plaster walls.

Dad had a new job:
A WPA engineer,
He built country schools.

Mom had a good man,
A pudgy pink baby,
And a roof overhead.

She fought dust and mud,
Scrubbed, hung out clothes,
And sung to her boy.

But then came the time
When Dad tried making wine
In a keg in the corner.

One night the keg blew.
And what they had to do
To clean up that mess

Dad would never confess;
But Mom told the story
Sixty years I guess.

2003 John I. Blair


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Reader Comments

Name: MaryE Email: marbety@pencilstubs.org
Comment: Oh, John! This poem reminded me of when the thin hotpad gave way as I was carrying a dish of creamed corn to the dining table which was in front of double windows hung with brand new floorlength acrylic faced, insulating drapes. They were very expensive, just matched everything for my room and were closed against the west Texas sunshine. After I dropped the tureen, they were randomly splattered from table height to the ceiling with buttery, creamy hot corn. Once the glass and corn were cleaned up, I realized the drapes were never going to lose the oily spots and I couldn't afford to replace them, so I appliqued over each spot with an olive green leaf shape, random sizes to cover the random sized spotting. You wouldn't believe all the compliments I got on the unique drapes! lol

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