Today's poem is by Ann Hudson

The Folk Songs of North America
       

Awake in bed I listened to my father
tune up the guitar, the big, black songbook
opened to any one of his dozens

of favorite songs — Shortenin' Bread,
Hard Travellin', Wabash Cannon Ball.
I listened hard for Big Rock Candy Mountains,

held my breath so I didn't even rustle
the sheets, pondering the buzzing of the bees
in the cigarette trees, wondering how hens would lay

soft-boiled eggs, imagine splashing around
the lake of stew and whiskey, too. Who
could dream up such a baffling heaven?

Our family was too sensible even for white bread.
Every day in the cafeteria I unlatched
my lunchbox slowly, knowing I'd find

a crumbly, brown sandwich, an apple,
a thermos of milk, and two dry cookies I'd try
to nibble just the chocolate out of and not

be late for math, where Mrs. Wagner
would pace the aisles and try to convince me
that all squares are rectangles but not all rectangles

are squares, that fractions get smaller
as their denominators get bigger,
and that subtraction isn't always less.

Copyright © 2025 Ann Hudson All rights reserved
from Subtraction Isn't Always Less
Next Page Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission