I found my poem
hung on the white wall of
my Grandma's basement.
That smelled like her. Calvin
Klein perfume in the pink bottle.
The image of a lady with black hair
and round green eyes.
She wore a
fancy navy blue ball gown,
a what one
might call a smile,
and stood
next to a black Mercedes.
What might
look like a Fashion Model.
My poem
never really had an identity,
because no
one knew who she might be.
When I asked
grandma she would say,
“ you know I really
don’t know.”
My poem just hung there,
collected
memories and dust in the
dark,dangerous,
disgusting basement. My poem
saw birthday parties,
family dinners, and I just kept
wondering
who my poem was
and she just kept that smile.