Twelve Months of Me & Granny
We have shared the same space
for a year.
She, ballplayer, tough mother,
Harley-riding snake-slayer.
Me, intoxicated by the sting
and singe of single living.
She’s still married to a soldier
long taken by the earth.
She is my best friend
and current keeper.
A red piano holds up
family photos.
I sit in a sagging chair,
my childish initials carved
in one arm.
She has three television stations.
Two are in black-and-white.
Her wild-haired head
swings from me to the TV,
watching the local news.
We debate how many cars
go by before sunset,
the number of calves
in this year’s herd,
that the answer to my apathy
is a good woman.
Clifford Brooks is the author of the brilliant Athena Departs, where this poem originally appeared.
We have shared the same space
for a year.
She, ballplayer, tough mother,
Harley-riding snake-slayer.
Me, intoxicated by the sting
and singe of single living.
She’s still married to a soldier
long taken by the earth.
She is my best friend
and current keeper.
A red piano holds up
family photos.
I sit in a sagging chair,
my childish initials carved
in one arm.
She has three television stations.
Two are in black-and-white.
Her wild-haired head
swings from me to the TV,
watching the local news.
We debate how many cars
go by before sunset,
the number of calves
in this year’s herd,
that the answer to my apathy
is a good woman.
Clifford Brooks is the author of the brilliant Athena Departs, where this poem originally appeared.
I enjoy this type of poetry, storytelling, whatever title anyone might put to it. very nice
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