Every Sunday the same story, supper
of pot roast and potatoes, sweaty pitchers
of sweet tea, fruit pies or pudding or ice cream.
After she cleared the food away, our mother
worked at the kitchen sink in her lovely
apron, the one with cherry blossoms
and ruffles, her heavy rubber gloves
a squeak as she sponged the tile counters.
Booth: Vol. 2
, Article 4.
Available at: http://digitalcommons.butler.edu/booth/vol2/iss4/4