She breaks the bread over its wicker
basket.  "Look," she lays the butter
on, "at that family across from us.
The son dressed like twenty years ago."
"Oh Mom!"  "Well, I keep track.
The father, on the other hand,
is blow-dried to the minute, likewise
what I take to be the mother.  So,
the answer's plain as broken bread."
She tears the crust-end off and sips
her wine.  Then, "A son of hers
from a former marriage.  See, the boy
hardly looks at him."  She finishes
her chewing.  "But Mom, the kid's
a spitting image of the man!  Look,
when he turns his head."  "Well,"
she tears another chunk of bread
and slabs the butter, swallows wine.
"The child is his, and so the lady --
I say this loosely -- has to be..."
She chews at the next revision,
reaches for another slice
of bread.

Taylor Graham

If you've any comments on his poem, Taylor Graham would be pleased to hear from you.