The retiree

He was three when he learned

and filed the knowledge forever

that the retired couple next door

loved children, especially those

who lived in the duplex next door

and so would always have a square

of Kraft’s fudge, sometimes

chocolate, sometimes vanilla

(his favorite), wrapped

in clear cellophane. All

the boy had to do was knock

on the back screen door and

the man would open it

with a smile and offer the square

of Kraft fudge, and the old man

and the little boy would sit

on the concrete steps, eating

their squares of Kraft fudge

together.

This is another in a series of poems about growing up in the South, suggested by my friend Nancy Rosback.