This raggedy broken down house
I live in with my grandmother
was erected when she was two. Only a child,
a curious brat that hung around the stove,
she watched her father cook. He always read the almanac,
his daily guide to planting ground crops. Tears
from heaven were his blessings, but too many tears
were shed. The river ran wild and beat against the house
after overflowing its banks. The almanac
never revealed the fury from the sky. Grandmother
grew hungry as it poured, lit the coal stove
and heated bed warmers to heat the bed for her child.
Hunger crept in as the rain fell. Her child
grew a bellyache from gas pains and cried tears
to honor his discomfort. She heated a can of soup on the stove
and fed him, then surveyed the house.
the rain eased as my grandmother
prayed, she never liked the almanac.
As the tears dried, the almanac
showed my grandmother serenity, she put out the coal stove
after feeding the child and repaired the battered house.
The Bigger D*ck Foreign Policy Theory
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