Bring me a cob of corn that has an odd
number of rows and I will pay you five
dollars for it, said the old man to us.
We were the kids in his Sunday school class.
I don’t recall the point he tried to make.
I just know I have never forgotten
what he said that day: All cobs are even.
I can’t help it; eating corn on the cob
I am compelled to always count the rows.
It’s always confirmed: that old man was right.
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