Sugar-glass Sunday mornings
always came before nice clothes.

We can't get your new shirt dirty before church
was the excuse we quipped
to no one in particular.

Outside at sunrise every time,
while fantasies of last night's Minelliom Falkins and Lite-savers
still flashed across my eyes,
we listened to little critters making noise
contentedly.

Mom used to tell me I was an early bird, or something like that.
I guess it takes one to know.

She'd come home from that green and white building
down the street that I flew to every time she drove
with rings – good ones too; the gold kind, glazed and leavened.

We'd sit there where Dad and the younger ones wouldn't find us,
and talk
outside on the screened-in porch with the industrial brown carpet,
munching on our own miniature Saturns.

Sometimes there were cardinals outside.
"Your grandma loved cardinals," she would say, and my reply was standard.
"That means grandma's watching over us."
And she'd kiss my wild cowlick and pull me closer.

I always wondered what Grandma was like.
I'll never know,
but I think she tastes like
doughnuts.