Micropoetry Monday: Opposites


The Shutterfly edition

He was a lost art,
she, an exact science.
he discovered her,
even as she created him.
When they bridged
what she knew
with what he made up,
they were unstoppable.

He said clicker,
she said remote control.
He said maters & taters,
she said tomatoes & potatoes.
He said younguns,
she said children,
but despite their cultural differences,
they were able to find that common ground
which became a fertile one,
& their new lexicon became remote,
& matoes & tatoes,
but nanner puddin’ would never be
merely “banana pudding”—
unless you skipped the Nilla Wafers,
& then, “You might be a Yankee if…”

He was the negotiating extrovert,
she, the bargain hunting introvert.
It was a match made in marital retail,
for what he saved on their house & cars,
she spent on shoes & handbags.

Children of the Blue and the Gray

He was a blue-blooded Yankee,
she, a red-blooded American.
He spoke like an Ivy Leaguer,
specifically Yale Law
& Harvard Business;
she spoke in the colloquialisms
& soft consonants of Deep South Jaw-juh.
They just couldn’t find common ground
he, with his clipped Northern accent
& she, with her Southern drawl
but when they got all mixed-up,
their hearts turned to purple prose
& they found uncommonly fertile ground.

The Summer of Blue

He wipes his smooth, pale brow with a white hankie,
Mississippi mud caked on his loafers.
The House of Carder stands on the grassy hill
like a sentinel,
keeping vigil over the town of Hayden, Louisiana.

The hearty aroma of shrimp gumbo
hangs in the air with the humidity—
the humidity that’s like a hot towel
wrapped around his beard.

She would say it’s as hot as blue blazes,
but he’d say it’s hotter than hell on Earth,
and hell was in this here town of a few thousand souls,
most of them saved.

It is a long, long walk
up this path through purgatory—
the colonnade of Cypress trees and Spanish moss
providing a green canopy, shielding him
from the sun that beat down on him like a cruel taskmaster.

There is a stillness here;
everything moving in slow motion;
it’s like he’s traveling forward through time,
watching the past as he goes.

It is at the end of this road
that he sees her—
the sun almost making her disappear—
this golden Southern belle who rings true.

Seeing him,
she brings him from the darkness into the light,
kissing him,
rushing him into the heat of the kitchen,
where a pot of grits is about to boil over.

Her family comes out to see the Yankee oddity
with the Northern accent—
to give him a silver spoonful of Southern hospitality.

Like a scene out of a Tennessee Williams’ play,
there is bickering over grievances old and new,
the barbs flying around him
like bullets coated with maple surple;
then, quick as a hound after a fox,
everyone simmers down,
and laugh like none of it mattered at all.