Papa corn

Papa went out and put on a show.

They smiled, they weeped, they clapped

at him up on the stage

in the bright, bright lights.

Papa drove home and took off his coat.

We squealed, we jumped, we hugged

when he came inside

from the cold, snowy night.

Papa changed to slippers and went to the stove.

He measured, he poured, he hummed

as he got out the stuff

to end his evening right.

Oil-kernels-heat, and the endless wait.

We little ones hoping

for a crunchy bedtime bite.

Papa lifted the lid and got lost in the steam.

He salted, he stirred, he filled

the giant metal bowl

with the pile of fluffy white.

Papa took his bowl and moved toward the couch.

He waited, he watched, he winked

as three sets of hands

reached up (but couldn’t quite.)

Alright, a handful each and then quick up to bed.

This corn belongs to Papa,

a reward for the crowd’s delight.