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Southern Tales -

He drops the tailgate on that old GMC truck using it as a makeshift workbench He tinkers with an old icemaker determined to bring it back to it's former glory He whistles an old country tune as he works with contentment His screwdriver slips and the melody is broken He cusses out loud as his knuckle begins to bleed Frustration grows as he uses his shirttail to wipe the blood, holding pressure on his hand with pure impatience, his eyes fixed on the old appliance in pieces The aroma of supper cooking makes it's way outside through the raised windows of the old white house He decides to give it up but only until tomorrow His concentration is broken and his mind is now on fried potatoes and onions As he wipes his hands on an old shop rag he counts his blessings They are abundant

Copyright © | Year Posted 2016

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Date: 11/4/2016 8:06:00 AM
Sounds authentic! It could be one of a million guys I've known. I don't know if it's just a southern thing but I grew up with it in the south. Your poem sounds like a typical day, except I cook for myself, Nikki:)
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Nikki Reynolds
Date: 11/5/2016 8:27:00 PM
Memories of my granddaddy....