Older Poems from the Pen of Olan L. Smith

Liars

My Brothers, Part III:  Liars

©2010, Olan L. Smith

My brothers educated me

Teaching me to work, play

And brother Bubba taught me how to smoke.

We would sneak behind our chicken coop,

Roll our own and light up.

When he had the extra money

He would on occasion buy store brands―

Bubba like Camels unfiltered—

I preferred Salem Menthols.

After we finished we would go indoors

To the kitchen and he would say,

"Wash your hands

And then rub them through your hair

And suck on this lemon drop—

It covers the smell of smoke.

Hurry before Mom comes home.

If she smells it

She'll cut a switch from the willow tree

And whoop us within an inch of our lives.

I was beginning to think

Hanging around Bubba was not such a great idea.

One time Mom came home early and said;

"Hi boys, what have you two been doing?"

I stood with my hand behind my back twisting

My upper body side to side nervously.

"Ah, we weren't doing nothing much, Mom." I replied.

"We just played around," Bubba added.

Momma sniffed around the kitchen and said,

"I smell cigarette smoke, boys."

Mom's sense of smell was very acute;

Dad, my brothers and I would on occasions discuss

Her lineage wondering

If perhaps she might be part bloodhound.

At this particular moment I knew we were in a fix.

I said to myself, Bubba's a slicker; he'll vouch for us.

Sliver tongued Bubba began to spinning a yarn,

"No Mom; we burned paper in the trash barrel, that's all."

I thought, Good save, Bubba!

"That's not paper smoke I smell."

Oh no, I thought― Bubba's slickness had wore off!

We're in deep shit now. I would have to use my charisma

And it wasn't first-class, like Bubba's,

Because― he was the favorite son.