Public Poetry. Alice.


Grandmas lookin.

Grandma enters the basement.
A single bulb lights the room.
Will she locate the skillet?
Has she thrown it away?

She searches…
inside the antique pie safe,
on the shelves crammed with
canned beans, peaches and tomatoes.
She glances under old newspapers,
scattering dust everywhere
in her haste to find the old black skillet.

An old metal table sits in a corner.
Winter’s sunlight slips through
the dusty window just above.
Her eyes spy the old black skillet
sitting on the table
tangled in spider webs
and coated with rust.

Upstairs Grandma runs
hot water in the kitchen sink.
Bubbles rise and burst
as the skillet sinks
into the foamy suds.
A little elbow grease and
a Brillo pad removes the rust.

Once more chicken fries
in the old skillet.
Apple pie bakes in the oven.
Ice swims in a pitcher of tea
while Grandma sets the table.

The front door opens…
her granddaughters rush inside.
“We’re hungry, Grandma” they yell.
“It won’t be long,” she says
as she puts a lid on the old black skillet.

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