Going to Grandma’s
This is the last poem or lyric I ever wrote. I don’t know why I stopped here, but I did. In the winter of 2002 I re-read IT by Stephen King. There is a scene that takes place in an abandoned, possessed house near a rail yard that haunted me. Something in its description made me recall my Grandparents house in the woods near Timpson, TX.
This poem is an imaginary trip to that house.
Going to Grandma’s!
The door stands ajar,
threatening, not inviting,
I go in anyway.
Shambles,
peeling plaster,
sheet rock kicked and punched.
Nothing here is familiar.
She sits silently,
forever offering a provocative glimpse
from the cover of a puffy and yellowing magazine.
The odors of long ago drunk beer,
and long ago passed urine,
flirt with the smell of rat feces,
and she still sits in the corner,
smiling—forever.
In this pale light,
(the suns rays make their narrow escape
as the cracked and broken boards on the windows
become teeth)
I realize what is meant by
ashes to ashes—dust to dust—and I shudder.
Grandmothers long dead leave houses long abandoned,
now a pit stop for tired bums and drunken teenagers,
no longer containing memories,
only nightmares.
