Hot Soup For Pulled Teeth

Silver bells,

Summer rolls.

Exit laughing-if you can

At the weather

And cousin

Michael’s clam chowder.

Floridians don’t

Understand  Vietnamese,

Brown leaves, our loves

that they are


Let them walk all shaking

in 85 degrees to the sands of the

North. They will never taste

our corn chowder, Or the white New England

Popcorn sweaters; how we love to

blow on our soups, weave our wools.

They will never understand

Our straight backs, Or the snow that

Melts on our mittens,

Our Patches,

Our cold legs,

Our broken umbrellas,

Our white laughter,

Our half-moon furs,

Our deep creek,

The holes in our gums…

Love and thanks,

Cousin Eileen copyright 2/14/13