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.

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