THE LIVING ROOM

Feb 12

Grandpa's black typographer's jacket was slung

Over the arm of the shit-brown mohair sofa

And I robbed it of twenty cents, a crime, the guilt

Of which I reach for: a nickel slipped out of

My palm and dropped down the cold air

Spent for banana candy at the A-1 Candy Store.

Grandma wanted whipping cream, knew

Grandpa had twenty cents in his black typographer's

Jacket, the only money in the house, except for

Uncle John's Indian heads. Mother,

After afternoon bridge, came to pick me up,

Heard the tale, and whipped me, grandma

In the kitchen, stiff with indignation.

When Grandma died, I made a scene, at the edge

Of her coffin, kicking and screaming, and meant,

Thereafter, and mean today, to find out her grave

And lay, among the weeds, before the headstone,

Twenty cents -- two nickels and a dime -- or banana candy,

Or a pint of whipping cream, mound upon mound.

THE KITCHEN