My grandmother lives in a small town
Where corn outnumber the people
Where the shops of the town
Have yet to assimilate
To the big box brands
Branching out across America

Where the skies truly are sky-blue,
And cotton balls resemble the clouds
Not the other way around

Where the lakes
And the streams
And the rivers
Are full of bountiful,
Freshwater fish
So much so
That people ignore
Any signs posted
And any notices noticed
To try and catch their share

A place where “Barleycorn” doesn’t refer
To the crops near Town Square
But as the nickname given
To a more precious commodity:
The kids

Laughing in parks,
Swinging in playgrounds
Getting lost amongst the trees
Of the town,
Kids

Because my grandmother lives in a small town
Where corn outnumber the people
And I remain, her little “Barleycorn”