Billie Dee
Proper Living
Grandpa won’t oil the squeaky windmill, says he likes it that way—tells him where he’s at in a dust storm. A man of strict habits, he’s extra gentle with horses and kids.
double yolked egg the rooster-spur scar on Mama's shin
Up before dawn, he shaves without a mirror, chooses a blue plaid shirt with mother-of-pearl snaps at the cuff, which he keeps neatly tucked into dark trousers. He won’t wear jeans like Daddy, “cause no gentleman rides out looking like that.” Come sunset he smells like a hot branding iron.
shelling peas into the enameled pan plink-plink-plink
After dressing the tack with neatsfoot oil and brushing his Stetson, Grandpa strips to the waist in the cow shed. A red-handled pump squeals till primed, then gushes into the wash trough. Fresh-laundered coveralls keep the man tidy while he milks the three golden guernseys.
sink high a line of damp marks Granny's apron
About the Author
Billie Dee is the former U.S. National Library Service Poet Laureate. She earned her doctorate at UCI, has won numerous poetry contests, and publishes online and off. She lives in the Chihuahua Desert with her family and a betta fish named Ramon.