Grandma’s perfume.

Her hair, like flakes of clouds above
Mixed with mint, adorned with sheer butter
Soft from morning combing sessions
Scanty from aging, scanty, she’s fading
As each day passes she gifts one stand to the earth.

Her musk is humor mixed with youthfulness
Sprays herself with energy to enforce discipline
So when she chases her goats from yard to home
There is no fear that she will fall
Her strides are those of excited monkeys.

Her aura is queenly and most adorable
Her flair for massages are, no doubt, intriguing
To say that she is young reminds her of afro days
How else can half white self made women behave.

Grandmas perfume oozes when she smiles
It ceases when her eyes are behind in anger
It oozes again when you bribe her
With cans of malt, not one, not two,
Grandmas perfume is sheer butter, an exotic musk.

LARDO