THIS
is the house
built by my grandmother
                                                                     Broken, I am not.

for an unexpected grandbaby
that she filled with furniture
carried from Cincinnati after
passing through Pennsylvania
bought with her second husband
whose death from cancer
knocked apart
her second-chance holidays
but like clockwork, the Revlon tube
kept twisting
as joy spread from her eyes
to the hands she used
to pull weeds and cut crusts
from grilled cheese.
                                                                    Her love! She offered. 
oh, how she rocked me.

THIS
is the counter
she leaned against
cleaning her fingernails
remembering
her mommy and daddy,
smelling of Baby Magic
and Muguet Du Bois
before she stood a full shift
behind the station counter,
lifting beer,
restocking cigarettes,
                                                     Repetition, Repetition, choo-choo!

laughing with
professors, students,
and townies
who passed through her line,
but always saving something
-rotisserie hot dogs,
heart-shaped peanut butter cups,
paper decorations –
to share with me.                            
                                                          Building, I am still.

oh, how I hugged her.