Once upon a time
There was a grandmother.
Betsy was her name.
She lived all alone
With Chicken,
Her kitty.
Everyday,
Rain or shine.
Betsy went for a ride.
She groomed herself,
And picked a salt & pepper Channel suit,
Daubed on some Mitsouko air,
Decked her head with a frumpy
White turban
With a tiny feather,
Right in front.
She felt elegant in tweed,
Crocodile shoulder bag,
Her favorite perfume
(a memoir of their home at Park Avenue),
An the delicate old-time hat
At Columbus Circle
She took the bus.
And grabbed a seat
Two rows from the driver.
She bobbed up and down her seat,
Each time the wheels
Tramped over a streetcar rail.
She did not care:
They were riding
And the city was a movie
Playing by her side
on the window screen.
A smile freshened face and eyes.
Timework softened its weight,
As Betsy renewed her dream:
an open window,
a sharp mind,
And the breeze so sweet,
Thoughts flared her back
To beloved people and places.
She looked at her fellow passengers,
Along the aisle.
The sharers of Betsy’s escapade
Wore long
Drawn in faces.
She felt sorry for them.
Softly, she opened a delicate purse.
Behind the zip-lock bag of the daily medication,
She sheltered her favorite kit.
With a twinkle, she grabbed it.
Through the straw
(dabbed into gluey water),
The lady blew dances
Into rainbow clear balls
To the children’s souls
Throughout the seats.
Inside the bus,
Puffs of air carried crystal lights.
Soap bubbles laughed,
Soared and loaded the vehicle.
The passengers left.
Betsy lived on.
Histórias Misturadas. 