she's in minnesota now

happiness is one elusive
son of a
biscuit eater,
my grandfather says
as he
whittles down
a stick
into a smaller stick.
when he talks like this,
you don't say a word,
you just listen.
we're sitting on the front
porch of his
run down house
in the woods.
I see a mouse pop his
head out from the floor boards
and scurry back under.
my first wife was a peach,
he says.
she made the finest pies
in town.
I truly loved her. she made
me happy.
but bill, the postman
made her more happier than
I could,
so she ended up with him.
they live
in minnesosta now. every once
in a blue moon
I think about her. about her
pies.
about the way she used to sit
on the front porch
with a hot cherry pie,
right out of the oven,
rocking in that chair over there,
waiting on the mail.