On Galley Street
On Galley Street, I stood on Great Granny’s back porch,
the Appalachian mountains peering over my shoulder
as I watched the North Fork of the KY roil and churn
brown waters foaming in their haste to round the bend
Debris, Great Granny said, (pronouncing the “s”) floats down the middle
when the river’s on the rise
a thick branch, torn away upstream, raised its hand once before going under
We weren’t worried, though. We were high enough on the bank.
On Galley Street, I ate green apples, smaller than my fist, plucked from
Great Papaw’s carefully-tended trees
A stray kitten, Misty, scampered onto Great Papaw’s shoulder
using a white paw to fish peanuts from his shirt pocket,
Great Papaw chuckled, a stream of tobacco flooding
a wrinkle near the corner of his mouth
On Galley Street, Great Granny and I sat on the red porch swing
flaking paint curled beneath my fingernails
Great Granny pushed us gently, one foot against the concrete porch
while Great Papaw sat in a sagging folding chair, shuffling a deck of cards
It was story time on Galley Street, Great Granny told tales
about their 12 children, when they were littler even than me,
about my own Papaw, who now lived next door,
about how, when he was little, he was afraid of feathers
Of course, I thought, for who would ever, in a million years,
want to fly away from here?