ALL THE FIXINGS
My grandmother saved the butts.
The butt of every bread loaf
went into the freezer for stuffing.
One stale loaf makes 8-10 servings.
Chicken, duck and turkey butts
were saved for stock,
onion and celery butts, too.
Roasted, they result in richer flavor.
When she passed, my grandmother’s freezer
was stuffed with hoarfrosted butts
awaiting the oft-promised return
of prodigal family.
Use a slurry of potato water and flour
to thicken gravies and soup.
The first time I left my children’s father,
I stuffed my trusty tank-green Cadillac
with kids and toys and their clothes.
Kids go through clothes faster
than grass grows.
Fueled by fury, drove Route 66,
the subject, if not the butt of song, drove
one thousand six hundred, seventy three,
point nine kickless miles—not looking
pretty—Tulsa, Oklahoma to Amarillo, Gallup,
New Mexico, San Bernardino.
Stopping only long enough to gas up
and drive-through.
Burger Kings are spaced a meal apart.
Kid’s Meal prizes change at the state line.
Drove Freedom Boulevard to Oregon Street,
straight into the long, fuchsia-lined driveway.
The ballerina flowers waved, so did she.
My grandmother saved my butt, too.
—from Prompt Poem of the Month
November 2024
__________
Prompt: Write an ode to the first thing you remember being thankful for. Note from the series editor, Katie Dozier: “There’s immense beauty in plain-spoken poems that skim off the all-too-common fat of highfalutin language from the gravy. No butts about it, this poem functions as a micro-memoir with an unlikely binding agent. In the end, the title sets us up for a George Bilgere-style revelation, where the title’s meaning evolves throughout the course of the poem. How can we help but go back for a second helping?”
