Patricia sits reading a chapbook
legs crossed, eyes locked onto words
that roll off each page & begin to speak
the language of pastel clouds blue & pink,
half moon rising above the cotton sky: 
a panorama dreamscape envisioned
& internalized by a redhead bibliophile.

Focused, unperturbed by other people 
intruding on her personal universe,
peach colored walls meet in uneven corners,
promise longevity, frame Patricia’s
minimalist library embellished by a
circular glass table & long cedar bench:
a literary sanctuary fortified by surrealism.

Hours pass, incandescent lights flicker—
cast shadows on text—give voice, add 
texture & dimension to passionate verse
as Patricia’s syncopated imagination
visualizes dramatic human certainties,
listens to timeless lovers exchange vows,            
fills empty spaces with private metaphors.
                        

I 
saw 
you just
yesterday
dripping and dancing

through the house in a white terry 
cloth towel singing 
“Celebrate 
the Curves,” 
while 
yours
thick
billed
parrot 
fluffed feathers, 
gurgled, trilled, offered
wolf whistles accentuating

random lyrics, squawked
“pretty girl” 
till your 
wrap
fell. 
                        

Grandma Leedom’s modest gown
smelled like lilacs as she sashayed
through the icy hallway, defying
early morning chill, grinding
beans, brewing fresh coffee, mixing 
chicory and eggshells with grounds;

she grated russet potatoes
with measured strokes keeping
percolator time—slow at first
increasing frequency and voracity—
fried them alongside bacon 
and her signature Denver omelets.

Pouring grease in tin cans, she’d
blot breakfast items before serving
anything, well aware we’d replace it
with heart-clogging butter slices,
pepper, salt, and tabasco sauce—
condiments inaccessible to us back home.

While Grandma washed dishes
my sisters ransacked her scented
chest-of-drawers, located silk undies
Grandpa referred to as passion killers,
hopped around the living room
in them like gunny sacks, racing,

laughing, falling on plush shag 
carpet, ripping then returning them
to their dark cedar graveyard, fearing
Grandma’s wrath once she discovered
her extra-large panties desecrated,
shredded, dysfunctional, irreparable.

Grandma kept her ducks in line 
knew about my sister’s deeds, 
but never let on about discovering
undergarment remnants worn 
more by habit than necessity; long 
before Grandpa’s heart-attach, 

her youthful flapper spirit remerged
like a wandering ghost seeking to fulfill 
unkept promises, complete unfinished business
embark on adventurous journeys
challenge norms and gender roles, embarrass
church snobs, rebel against authority; 

she wanted to buy lacy, modern panties
strut about in seamless stockings 
model a new line of sexy lingerie,  
resuming the vibrant, roaring
lifestyle she enjoyed before Black Friday
and the Stock Market Crash of 1929.