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Gram MAG
January 13, 2012
At eighty-four, the old girl’s soul
is ripe and tart like wine,
filling her dank and musty body
like a forgotten cellar.
Sitting in a chewed blue armchair all day
makes her a tight wad of nerves.
Her wild eyes dance maniacally behind useless panes;
her flaming tongue spurts senseless, spicy words
at people passing.
She is a queen, that little dragon lady,
a queen on a threadbare throne.
But that suits me just fine;
to me she’s as darling as a restless child
watching a wet, white snowfall
smother the playground in December.
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