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Poem #3

03 Apr

Grampy Robbie was a journalist,
With an Underwood typewriter on a roll-top oak desk
And a beige reel-to-reel in the back parlor.

When he interviewed there,
I could hear manly voices through the door
From my perch on the stairs.

Sitting on his lap, facing out
I could rap my knuckles against the wood above the knee.
He said it had been shot off by a cannon.

“Give us a smooch,” he’d say
and lay a grizzled kiss on my cheek.
Ever after, for me a smooch implies scratchy warmth.

He smelled of apple juice
Which Grammy told me to bring him
that if I did, he’d give me all his money when he died.

Then one time when I visited,
He was laid out in a coffin in the back parlor
Not far from Grammy’s unbelievably fancy satin pillows
in rose and black.

Do you wonder whether I expected to inherit?
No, that was just Grammy’s way of saying
She didn’t believe in true love.

 
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Posted by on April 3, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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