Someday I will drop by the old

place, sentiment full, see grandma

smelling like darling sachet

tucked in her lady bosom mixed

with scented powder creased against crepe.

She will feebly ask, I imagine,

for a prize, a China lamb or caramel sweet

and when she is finished

give it back to me

with insouciance because after

all she is ancient,

does not really care if my

sensibilities are offensed,

wouldn’t recognize my dignity

even if I looked her in the eye.

She’s not a grand dame, I equivocate, just

withered, slumped and sniffled.

I have to feel a little sorry for her, don’t I?

Maybe not.