The Grits You Left On the Stove That Morning

In a pan too large
for the burner
in a kitchen without windows
they expanded
giving off an
unwelcome odor

Take away my
aching Yankee head
and heaving stomach,
memories of
last night’s bourbon

Any other morning?
Those grits, perfectly stirred
With the cheese on top?
They still would
have been unwelcome

Some Southern things
I’ll never understand,
like sleeveless flannel,
boiled peanuts,
and the appeal of
the Chihuahua.


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