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.