a text that says that she is gone,
the grandmother who raised him;
a maid for country squires, who
had children of their own
a tiny house that she made warm,
a smell of apples baking,
a story as the rain fell loud,
a king upon his throne --
but she died lone and far away,
while he was chasing pleasure:
to grow up poor with someone who
gave to him her best treasure,
the rich ones, with their perfect lives,
could never know the feeling,
of having nothing but pretend
from his side of the ceiling
but anger won't protect him, now,
for life goes where it chooses,
and nothing we run out of
quite surprises like
excuses
