Pot of dread

Poem about the parental secret of a good pot of soup.


When I was a boy,
my mother brewed pots of stew for her famous feasts.
All stood still to watch her skillfully stir her stew;
Mixing, stirring, and sipping.
Until she got the taste tried true
and then we knew she dipped down her slick spoon,
yelling dinners due.

For years
we gathered at the table around her continuing our Sunday tradition
enjoying her stew.
We eyed her stew;
her mixing, stirring, and sipping.
Until we neglected, regretted, sitting at the counter
hoping she’d flow forever pouring our supper.

I remember one eve; we reviewed our nights menu inside our home,
smoky skies,
we asked our neighbor to try our stew;
her mixing, stirring, and sipping.
She proclaimed, professed, she mustn’t and can not do
Virgil, her dog, called commanding to bid adieu.

For years
We gathered at the table around her.
Until dark harkened death,
mother made her last brew into her stew;
her mixing, stirring, and sipping.
Our mother exclaimed; explained her secret menu,
“Notice our neighbors gone,” she said, stirring her stew.

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