spit out those dull clichés,
calling them, for lack of
what you could call a better
and more appropriate term,
colloquialisms, which sounded,
to uninitiated ears, like communism.
That night when Grandma died
he told her that the shirt she wore
would be her last and that no shirt
had pockets if it was your final garb.
He turned to our solemn faces and,
earnestly, eyes semi-shut, pronounced
that she had surely dropped her spoon,
and then he grabbed a can of Lager
from the neutral fridge and burped
X marks the spot, it was the moment
I did notice that she wore the very X
as was her habit, today as if it were
not really her last on earth, I liked her,
meaning my grandma and her wonderbra.