No one calls him Rockwell.
I guess the people who know figure
he’s no Van Gogh. No Rembrandt or Picasso.
 
I only bring this up now because
I’m looking at the framed print hanging
on our dining room wall. Two gawking
dockers sharing a table at a diner with a boy
and his grandmother saying grace.
 
My work boots are still laced up tight
as I sit at the table laughing
with my young sons. Their mother
dishes up dinner hot off the stove,
sets down plates, reminds the boys
to wait so they won’t burn their tongues.
She manages a smile. I manage one back.
 
I’m hungry and, although agnostic these days,
my chin rests on unintentionally laced fingers.
I want to bow my head.


© by Danny Earl Simmons.
Used here with the author’s permission.