Grandma calls me up to see how I’m doing
and to request a country song for the reception
-- a sappy, twangy one she and my grandpa
like to slow dance to.
She reminds me
it’s going to be her birthday this Saturday,
tells me about her upcoming trip to Hawaii
and comments with pride
that Grandpa’s the only grandfather left
for all the first grandchildren.
She asks if I’m getting cold feet.
I can’t tell her about my weekend,
and even if I could, she wouldn’t understand
how pot, sex, South Park and conversation
(repeated, in that order)
can just feel right, sometimes
can be a scene of love, too, sometimes.
So I just say, “No, Grandma.
No cold feet.”