The old days.
Grandma has the skirt on.
She wants some, so she gets it.
Silk thighs, bright green eyes, there we are.
In the night she drives to the dance,
October and her way of life.
Scotch. They fly like paper animals.
That man, in the corner, pinstriped.
Pinstriped, gaudy. He smells of chemical upstate.
He eyes her, thighs on his eyes, her eyes.
Swing beat, slow beat, jungle beat. Jungle.
Heat. She laughs the way he likes.
What does she put in her hair?
Those were the old days.
Now it’s Christmas and she bakes a ham.