barely hangs on to the wall;
is at only the angle greater than
which the journals and books
would all fall to the floor. even
rubber ducky batman and rubber
ducky wonder woman look like
they’re about to fall bills first
onto the floor. perhaps, if so
flummoxed, they might flap
their wings a bit and land in
the soup that’s being brought
to a boil upon the miniature
stove just below and to the
right (to me, not to the right
of the duck superheroes).
a pink bunny bookend stares
at me while i’m in bed, the
lights bright, typing this
abrupt homage to my grand
mother’s journals, each of
which, in somewhat chrono
logical order stand upright
(but at that odd slanted
angle) one by one past
that cute bunny bookend
that i purchased long ago
somewhere in japan. they
are each dated, beginning
in the 1930s and ending
in the mid 1990s, which
amounts roughly to the
span of life of my lovely
grandmother, whose
journals i inherited
after she passed.
she kept diaries,
was always the
bastion of fashion,
upbeat no matter
how down the times
might have been or
how browbeaten she
would surely be from
the toils of whichever
day. she was the best
half of a blue collar
romance of the ages.
and she was a poet.
