Chicken, fried,
and collard greens,
with bacon and onions,
a pinch of sugar and salt.

Sweet Tea,
brewing in the sun,
and homemade pies cooling,
in the springtimes window.

The smell of cornbread,
baking up golden crisp,
buttered and honeyed,
a *** of pintos bubbling.

Children run and play
in their Sunday's best,
while mother's fuss,
about not getting *****.

Ham, and blackeyed peas,
green and congealed salads,
all brought out,
red and white checked cloth.

Sunday lunchtimes,
after church,
potlucks of yore,
I miss the desserts.