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?