perpetually
high on weed,
or just plain
dumb. grandma
at sixty plus,
her stories were long
and boring,
they never circled back
to any
conclusion.
no punch line.
no finish.
just a lot of babbling
on and on.
she was
dazed and confused,
lost in
the smoke,
the residue.
do you want some,
she asked,
holding out a nickel
bag of home
grown.
nah. i think i'll pass, but
please don't let me
stop you.
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