Some mornings all I want
is a big mug of coffee perked
on the back burner in my
dead grandma’s kitchen & a bowl
of grits with a fried egg on top,
the yolk running everywhere,
& one of her plump biscuits
hot from the oven, ridges 
in the shape of her fingers 
baked into the crust from 
when she’d patted them in the pan
like a baby’s butt. Maybe she’s
crisping up some fatback
to tuck inside the biscuit,
or spooning out some pear
preserves she’d put up herself.
There’s leftover fried chicken
& Irish potatoes in the pie safe
& a box of Nilla wafers 
for that banana pudding 
she’s got planned for supper. 
She smells like bacon fat
& butterbeans, Doublemint
gum & Beechnut snuff. 
Sometimes her apron strings
fall open in the back & she
lets me re-tie them, telling me
I’m her special boy.