Are These My People?
By Carl Mayfield
Sitting around the kitchen table,
legs crossed, listening to look-alike foreheads
remember how the tornado
forgot to kill them:
Yes we are going to the cellar again
so wipe that look off your face
and I don't want no heathen backtalk
Are these my people?
Yes, in both name and deed,
even though I drink store-bought whiskey.
We pass a cowlick around the table,
grin like fools on holiday,
our hearts circling unremarkable moons.
