like she feared
it’d get gone,
she greeted me with a smirky smile.
I don’t want to remember.
Her late-70s legs, shapely as a cheerleader’s,
sidled up to her bottom
on her smart new recliner.
Compensating for wine-budget priorities,
her ceiling fan sliced the heat
like a desperate machete.
Veteran bug-eyed shih tzu, staring
from across the room,
Held captive, I listened
to her spirits-infused verbosity—
a scene with more violins
than a D-rated soap opera
that I quickly pushed
buttons past at home.
Even today, five years later, my scorched
ears reel, tail feathers smolder.
She complains that I never visit.