Welcome To Grandmas
A quaint yellow sign hangs just
above the rusty firewood rack, probably too high
for the 80-something woman to reach.
Welcome To Grandmas.
The now soggy
white dreamcatcher dangles on it, dancing for rain, not asking for a flood.
Shards of glass getting closer to the bent
gutters, pushing back. Hired men throw sandbags
with no avail, Katrina happening here in Minnesota.
She was eating breakfast with friends
at Happy Chef, not expecting to return home
to walleye and carp in the house. The light pink siding was now
two toned from algae, a sports car ready for a drag. Race to the State Farm
agent to check on insurance. No more summer vacations
for the grandchildren. No more visits from the drunk son
asking to borrow 120 dollars for rent.
Welcome To Grandmas.
At least her goldfish survived.