What’s Left of My Grandmother’s Signature

In her room at Poet’s Walk
her first name begins with
a cursive J elegantly
completing itself on the wall,

resting in suspended animation
southwest of an equally impressive
o that I’d be proud of except
that it decides to exit
stage left instead,

which loops down
into the second mistake;
a loosely connected capital A
followed by the third
in a four letter name,
an l instead of the n.

Beginning Anderson
she abandons script,
another capital A
shuffling its feet nervously
just before the chasm
breaking her concentration
yet again,

the n shrinking,
and the d passed over
entirely for the e, tilted
and staring into oblivion,
and whatever else I remember.

My Grandparents’ House

Grandma and Grandpa’s house is immortal,
or at least the love of two who knew
we could do no wrong—

you were perfect in their eyes,
and so was I.

Now the familiar house belongs to others.
I fantasize that they too have grandchildren
visiting from down south, that the room
next to the kitchen is still cold on summer mornings
where an eager grandson is watching deer
while his grandmother watches him.

She asks him what he wants for dinner
and the response of chicken nuggets
jars me back to a nightmare of now—

I see their antipasto missing,
and no course after dinner.
No Sunday gravy is cooked
with the masterful touch
of just right.
Children are playing
on tablets instead of listening
to stories about their ancestors.

I’d still like to go back.
We could teach them
what home used to feel like.

Parallel

Alone with my poetry
in a busy food court,

several passing parents
judging my Bob Marley shirt
like it’s still 1970,
smugly unaware
their thoughtless disturbances
weren’t unnoticed.

The intermittent sunroofs
are a nice touch,
but a bit too human
in their judgmental equidistance
to resemble nature’s beauty.

 

Image by Jehjoyce at en.wikipedia [Public domain]