Wine

By John I. Blair

My parents were young,
Spring-green as willows
And recently wed.

In Quinlan, Oklahoma
They rented a house
With pale plaster walls.

Dad had a new job:
A WPA engineer,
He built country schools.

Mom had a good man,
A pudgy pink baby,
And a roof overhead.

She fought dust and mud,
Scrubbed, hung out clothes,
And sung to her boy.

But then came the time
When Dad tried making wine
In a keg in the corner.

One night the keg blew.
And what they had to do
To clean up that mess

Dad would never confess;
But Mom told the story
Sixty years I guess.

©2003 John I. Blair