Church and Picnic both capitalized
in our house—starred locations
of deprivation and excess—
they stacked boxes of bagged buns
beside the grills where portly men
gripped tongs to bite us with our status
as The Poor as we tallied our quantities
of sin, our charred dogs in their sinful
luxurious beds. We relished them
in silence, burping out amens.
Five kids squirmed at our tilted table
as the dogs boiled, sending off
steaming comfort of meaty tears.
We lay dry sponges of stale bread
on our plates and drew lurid lines
of mustard and ketchup
before the Tongs of God dropped
pink tubes into that mess of bread
we wrapped around the dog
snug like that famous bug
customized by doughy pressed prints.
We each ate our allotted two,
pork and beans drizzling
from a huge dented can dwarfing
us in slanted folding chairs
donated by the church,
as unreliable as we were.
We smeared our faces with the body
and blood as our Mother leaned against
the stove, smoking a cigarette,
smiling at all that saving.