just poor folks,
living in an old house,
sleeping in a corner

'neath old handmade quilts.
scrubbing scarred floors
with pinesol pride mops....

while the smell of cornbread and
beans hangs in the air.....
stuffing cracks in the windows

against the cold...
kerosene heater,
2 five gallon cans....

a bare light bulb
hangs over the table....
they sit in silence....

reading and thinking...
the old car in the drive,
might crank, and might not....

but that's tomorrow....
and tonite,
they're almost warm!

Eric Cockrell

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/just-poor-folks/