grandmother

her memories drifted to sleep younger than she
but her thoughts sang chords
she lies in bed with back down and music up
unable to recognize faces
she sings me a song
a chorus
an ode to her lifestory
she will never remember the days spent sipping coffee with the spice of Cajun stories on her tongue
but she knows every word to please come to boston
synapses become lyrics
and lyrics are love in its simplest form

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