The note said: drunken saddam,
but that’s not what she meant,
my Grandma had sloppy writing,
now I don’t know what to do
and I have a feeling it was really important.
Guess I could ask if I dug a little
but then again the answer can’t breathe
underground. Get out the ethereal directory
and phone, there must be someone
who knows what to do with this orphan
apartment. The frowning oven,
the furled brow of the light bulbs.
It’s a lonely place now
with so many furry memories.
I wonder if she was watching
the news about Iraq, maybe having a little
Manischevitz and on the grocery list
on the fridge next to cherries she wrote:
drunken saddam while her heart
made the encore performance pump
for the untouched china in the cupboards
and the over polished silverware in the drawers
and she grabbed the list to hold on, it ripped
and she fell to the linoleum kitchen floor.
They found her cold fingers wrapped tight
around those indecipherable words:
drunken saddam.
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