The causal rain
and my Earl Gray are cold.
I find them easy to swallow.
The cigarette-bricked columns,
newly formed patrons of a memory
I never lost, split passing groups of people.
I resent their intrusion
and consider changing
my wrought-iron position.
Yet, I am held fast by the lingering ashes,
one of my grandma’s many smells.
It is almost her birthday.
I will celebrate later in the week
by opening a bottle of perfume
I can’t remember if she wore or not.
Strange how I miss her, evenly,
like a level.
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