In-Laws

My in-laws rolled up in a hybrid machine,
Wore city-made boots and pants far too clean.
They brought quinoa salad to our Fourth of July,
And called my cornbread “a carb-heavy lie.”
Her mama said, “Do y’all shoot guns for fun?”
I said, “Only when tax assessors run.”
Her daddy stared hard at my field of hay,
Asked if Wi-Fi reached the livestock bay.
They said our barn smelled “authentically rustic,”
I said, “That’s manure–you can’t out-musk it.”
Her brother tried milking a steer in vain,
We still tell that story when it starts to rain.
Her sister asked if my tractor was “manual,”
I said, “Nope–it’s just naturally judgmental.”
They judged my porch beer and my three-dog nap,
Then got chased by a rooster wearin’ my cap.
Now every Thanksgiving they eat and they flee,
Leavin’ behind gluten-free gravy and glee.
They don’t understand why we bless our boots,
Or why our Sunday best still smells like roots.
But love means smilin’ while they criticize corn,
Then laughin’ when they step on a cactus at dawn.

Alan Nafzger (editor@bohiney.com)