A poem by P.B. Robosa

Keeping Time

My grandmother never had much,
slender frame and thin gray hair
sang old lullabies and danced
through afternoon siestas
and wiled away time playing cards.
I still remember her calloused fingers
as she puffed on the senorita
toward her chest and out again,
watching time’s rhythm
with the melodies from the old radio
and fresh wind from the window.
I remember how she used to put pillows
on her lap for my afternoon naps.
Nothing felt better than drifting
to sleep wrapped in one of grandma's hands,
listening to her cracked, aged voice
singing, "sleep, oh, baby."
So warm, I thought I would never feel cold
again.