by Lorraine Merrin
ours was a family
that just didn’t stop.
After the aunts and uncles, there were cousins
and the significant others of cousins,
the children of cousins and sometimes,
the dogs of cousins. Not to put too fine
a point on it, let me just say these dogs
were not just any dogs. They were bonafide,
genuine pick-a-the-litter hunting dogs.
Some of ’em probably worth more
than the cousin’s first born son.
The family was big on get-togethers:
BBQs and fish fries; even a church
cake walk would do.
A nice person would come up to you and say,
Hey, how ya’ doin’?
I’m Clyde and this here’s my wife, Berniece.
We’re from over to Cotton Springs.
You’d reply, something like,
Good to see ya’ here, Clyde. Nice to meet you,
Berniece. Lovely dress you’re wearin’.
It’s only later that you realize Clyde
isn’t a cousin at all. He and Berniece
were just passing through
on their way home from a trip to Shreveport.
They saw the two hundred seventeen trucks
parked all over the pasture,
smelled BBQ or the catfish fryin’
and decided to stop in, meet and greet,
and have a bite to eat.
[Check out Lorraine Merrin’s back porch advice here]