By Amie Bernard
The chicken is poppin in the fryin pan.
The Blues is wailin from the needle’s drag.
Her foot is tappin to the beat of the band
as she follows Billy’s lead in a vocal dance.
The steam swirls up ‘round her head like a veil.
I sit on the washer by the seat of my pants.
I keep up time tappin feet on the pail
while I watch her turn the chicken in the pan.
She wipes her brow as she and Billy wail.
I watch as she fans the steam with her hands.
Her voice tapers off with the poppin’s refrain.
I lick my lips as the chicken turns tan.
She rests the chicken on the paper to drain.
This image of grandma will always remain.