My Grandma Ruth prit’neart
raised 7 boys all by herself, in rural Ohio.
Without a driver’s license.
She washed the deeshes by hand
each night, and ate fried feesh on Fridays.
Grandpa walked the railroad tracks
home every day, metal lunch box
rattling at his side.
Sometimes, on Saturdays,
Gram took us downtown on the
(hissss, screech, rumble)
where the ding-a-ling-ring
of merchant doors
The heavy click-click-click
of the rotary phone
to call home. The squeak-groan
of the mattress springs
in the attic bed. The titter
of a dozen
The rasp rasp of hand grating nutmeg
setting music to the scent of cinnamon.
The off-tune lull of her voice:
Oh, what a beautiful morrrrning,
Oh, what a beautiful daaaaaaaay!