Corn, in silken robes, canned
from ancestors … a brand?
Weiners, spuds and pintos
sopped well with fresh corn bread,
washed down with fresh Kool-aid …
we were ‘Kentucky’ bred.
Born north of the border
but Momma had her ways.
Spared not rod or anger …
our momma honed bad days.

Corn, unwrapped and devoured,
was never wasted, soured.
Corn bread and pinto beans
were scrubbed in our wash tub.
Rubbed clothes on a wash board,
and, weekly, we were scrubbed.
We had nothing fancy—
each other—became ‘buds’.
We knew to keep secrets …
hid ‘sweets’ in our scrub dud’s.

Corn kept us a runnin’—
there Momma showed cunnin’.
We were skin hung on bones …
never gained any weight.
Being ‘Kentucky’ bred
knew hunger was our fate;
learned to pinch a penny …
to eat well on a date.
Egos fade with aging …
corny … ‘Kentucky’ bred.