Grand Slam
A poem
My grandmother worked the legend shift
at Denny’s, a Saturday morning struggle
to keep ashtrays empty and eggs on the plate
as Delaware cops and construction crews
threw smiles and crumpled dollars
into the crumbs of chewed toast.
How often those breaded triangles were cut
with a single moon bite right on the butter
like a dog lifts its leg to claim a lamp post.
They were handing out baseball cards
with breakfast and my grandmother
collected them all just for me, hustling
for Cal Ripken and Clark, Barry Bonds,
Bream, and Ventura, all of them resting
in a careful binder at her break station.
She showed love in mysterious ways:
adventure, expectation, the loyalty
of a mafia family without the cement shoes,
sons and daughters in love, sons and daughters
in tragedy, a beehive haircut, a phone call,
a raised voice to call her deaf husband.
©️ Trapper Markelz 2023
If you enjoyed this poem, please check out my chapbook Childproof Sky, a Cherry Dress Chapbooks 2023 selection.
