Robert E. Wood Yankee at the Counter Without getting all Jack Nicholson about it I tell them hold the grits at Waffle House. I have never written a poem about roadkill. I have no sainted grandmothers flying milkruns of grace over south Georgia fields. If anything my grandmothers would ride the subway searching perplexedly for the BMT rising no higher than the El will take them following the crowd to Brighton Beach for a little ocean air, nobody's apparition, nobody's Gothic tale.

---