Everyday after school in third grade
Grandmom Mary would pick me up
In her battered brown Pontiac,
Wearing a cheap fur hat
And costume jewelry she swore was real
Swearing at passing cars
And argueing with Paul Harvey
On the radio.
I would stay at her apartment for hours
'Till my Dad picked me up
Being spoon fed florescent Spaghetti O's
And flat soda through an old, oft used plastic straw.
Her small, second floor home was trimmed
With junk I only ever saw at garage sales.
Clipped newpaper articles
About the good fortune of strangers
Were crookedly hung with tape on the walls
And worthless glass and plastic figurines
Sat on the ledge leading up the stairs
Wearing a vail of dust
Chipped and faded by my curious younger fingers.
Every piece of stained furniture reeked
Of Grandmon's life long smoking habit
While fumes of the BenGay
That sat next to the glass
That held her dentures
Lingered outside the bathroom
She only ever stopped talking