My grandmother lives in a brick building.

There is snow all around it and on top of it.

She stands in the third story window

looking out of focus and pale turquoise

smears a polyester armor.

Silver metal frames grip the temples

she no longer worships in.

She complains of going blind slowly

and carpal tunnel syndrome;

I suppose from when she typed too much.

A picture of Grandpa

George Jetson out in space,

branded on her memory

beneath translucent blue hair.

Dark streaks of sparrows dive for seed

across a canvas primed in titanium.

She doesn’t feed the birds anymore.

She lets somebody else do that

and she gave her shadow box away.

The one made out of the picture frame

that held her wedding photo.

Her plants slipping into unfamiliar hands

may go to bed with wet feet now.

Strawberry jello cups are rubbery beds

for stale cool whip routine.

Dorothy, wake up.

Her neighbor knocks on the door

and she ignores it.

Touches the window sill for balance

and thinks about pulling the shade.