Her beauty hidden

beneath the jutting chin

and deep creases,

she sits alone

wearing the discarded nylons

of growing grandchildren

and watches them speak

of little league and leather bracelets.

Slowly,

letting go,

she does little more

than vote for protestant republicans

and remember him,

still,

after twenty years.

Waiting always

for Christmas

and Sunday dinners,

she sits in her faded pink chair

and opens the same jersey dresses,

and feeds them dumplings

and chicken

and ice water

and never coke.

She shortens dressses

and tears down

the "Stop this Goddam war" sign

and gives them too many

onions and tomatoes when they leave. 

     *Dipping my toe into poetry here on OS made me go back and read some of my poems from my college days. Most made me groan, but I liked this one about my grandmother, my "Ma."