Dawn Potter: How to Ask for Money

Grandmother declared, after her third glass of rosé,

that vehement was a flavor.

Then she turned to stare at me. “A curtsey,”

she trumpeted, “is a stitch in time!”

She blinked sardonically

and returned her attention to the antimacassar she was tatting.

Her apartment was as bare as an automobile showroom:

which is to say,

the grand piano was dwarfed by the mahogany chifferobe,

but there were hardly any chairs.

My brother and I knelt on the threadbare kilim

and counted butterflies and birds.

Our father twitched on the piano stool and bit his nails.

There was no mention of lunch.

Copyright 2018 Dawn Potter