Jake Diefer, the barrel-chested Pennsylvanian, Hand like a ham and arms that could wrestle a bull, A roast of a man, all solid meat and good fat, A slow-thought-chewing Clydesdale horse of a man, Roused out of his wife’s arms. The dawn outside Was ruddy as his big cheeks. He yawned and stretched Gigantically, hawking and clearing his throat. His wife, hair tousled around her like tousled corn, Stared at him with sleep-blind eyes. “Jake, it ain’t come morning, Already yet?” He nodded and started to dress. She burrowed deeper into the bed for a minute And then threw off the covers. They didn’t say much Then, or at breakfast. Eating was something serious. But he looked around the big kitchen once or twice In a puzzled way, as if trying hard to remember it. She too, when she was busy with the first batch Of pancakes, burnt one or two, because she was staring At the “salt” on the salt-box, for no particular reason. The boy ate with them and didn’t say a word, Being too sleepy.