It’s a boring morning
(of one of those weekends
we lay awake in bed)
time comes by
on a chariot
of lazy thoughts
bearing memories
of when we were kids
of grandma
and days that she visits
that she fills our bellies
with tasty treats.
From Beloxxi cookies, Yale, and Baker’s
and wraps of candies and crunchy fries
to the other snacks her neighbour offers
in her front-yard store, and behind
to her husband’s tailor
At times, she comes with a bagful
of lollipops and bubblegums
and popcorn and scores of corpses
of those who passed away mysteriously
to whom catarrh became a serious thing.
She shares everything she brings
to the crumbled ones in wrinkled wraps
those at the bottom of her goody-bag
these few fumbled bites and her family ties
and her feud with her father before he died.
She will not eat, she will not spit
she will not take one minute to take a pee
not till she is done
slightly will not be her yawn
little will not be her stretch
modest will not be her rest
and even with the sun far west
she will never stay for the night
and tell us tales by the moonlight
