rain-slicked streets, and trolley wires glistening
traffic rushing by, spraying water as they pass.
this is the long ride home from Grandma's
boarding house she owned was big and foreboding,
with small suites that smelled of vinegar and
I remember the long hallway with the umbrella
and the paisley wallpaper, gaudy, large but with
feeling of belonging.
the silver teapot and the thin china plates,
the rotating lamp that looked like a forest fire,
the outside window ledges covered in coal dust,
the octopus-like furnace in the basement.
the street, the television store
where I saw my first T.V,
my face pressed against the window
to catch a glimpse of fuzzy, out-of-focus images
cowboys and Donald Duck.
special feeling of comfort and love that only a
to Grandma's house can bring.
by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul