He Knew How To Slaughter a Chicken

He knew how to slaughter and dress a chicken She baked bread every Friday in the tiny kitchen He built their one-car garage from lumberyard scrap She grew veggies on hardscrabble soil, for her family and pap They didn't speak English, never went out to eat A little meat on their table during the week, a rare treat No insulation in their frame house, not all the windows closed In the summer they boiled; come winter they froze... Their own sons were ashamed to have parents so green Their friends wouldn't come over, a hidden couple, unseen They were my bubbe and zayde, my grandma and grandpa Gone by fifty ~ Inscriptions on their graves at me gnaw Note: the letter 'e' in 'bubbe' and 'zayde' is pronounced as a 'y'