Early Saturday morning I sit in the obor,
cracking a hardboiled egg on the edge of the front step.
Watching grandma snip thorns from bushes with rusted scissors,
then cut half a dozen peachy roses to place in water on a rickety table,
next to the apple she slow-baked for grandpa,
who walks in at noon, demanding a shot of rum.
Flies buzz over the roses; he doesn’t touch the apple.
“Did you get good grades this week? Here’s a coin. Walk on inside.”
I walk in, thumbing the surfaces of the coin.
Grandma yells at grandpa.
Grandpa breaks a plate.