Manners | Kathleen Hacker

Kathleen Hacker Manners

Its piping hot navy bubbles explode with fresh baked aroma every person wants their own piece of her Magic Blueberry Pie

five children and one ex-husband partake at her life-worn table the favorite son-in-law wins the penultimate seventh slice

the last of her weekend sweetness nestled in an oven safe dish outlives aging, egg-brushed luster and takes on a yester-pie form

daughter stops by Monday morning she must grab the laundry and go as she flies out the back door she deftly lifts a blue spoonful

dutiful son shows up midweek to fiddle with the back-porch light he declines the pie she offers and heads out exactly five minutes later no one takes the last of something blame it on breeding or manners they shun its final breath of life truth be told it’s unappealing

and there she sits on Friday night window watching wisp of a girl wanting family to break the fast or to share her non-blueberry days

This poem was written as part of my first chapbook. It touches on the loneliness the elderly can experience to which even caring, attentive family members are blind.