C. T. Suddeth

To the Unknown Farmer

Charles Suddeth

Back in 1957 or 58,

Indiana, maybe Michigan,

We halted at a roadside rest,

Cornfields swallowing a picnic table.

We dined on fried bologna

Munched stale potato chips,

Washed down with warm punch,

But that corn sure looked good.

My uncle dropped his sandwich,

Grabbed a wicked hunting knife,

Hacked off several ears of corn,

Filled a couple grocery bags.

At camp that night we feasted,

Hot dogs and corn on the cob.

That was the best corn ever.

How much do we owe you?