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.
