Onion Snow Poem by Leo Yankevich

The peeps you'd bought were chirping in the box.
The groundhog lied again. You'd left to buy
beer, bread and chipped ham. It was Easter Sunday.
Bells from a dozen churches filled the air
in this small steel town where the unemployed
perpetually keep beer gardens open.
You'd yelled: 'Yunz better worsh them dishes
and redd up things before yunz go outside.'
You said you'd had enough of eating jumbo
and food stamps didn't make a difference.
We didn't know you'd go by way of Altoona,
that you'd go ghost on mommy and us kids.
You left behind a bloodstain in your truck,
the lasting memory of onion snow.