Nicely Right

by Richard Hartwell

My clichéd stitchintimesavesnine grandmother
            wasn’t really nice,
But in deifying her grandness I often wondered
            nine what?

Certainly not stitches, at least I didn’t think so.
            It took sixty-three of them
To close her up from checking cancer, which did nicely in her lungs,
            and send her home.

So, home she nicely went and in between the blood-flecked fits of coughing
            she Pall-Malled,
                        sherry-nipped,
                                    knitted one,
                                                pearled two,
                                                            and nicely died.

Her children ohmywasn’tsheaniceladyed their way through the funeral
            and after all the
We’vejustgottogettogethermoreoftendon’tyouthink,
            I just knew
Wereallydidn’thavetoanymore.

So, donning my denim jacket and putting my crocheted cap back on my head,
            I pot-smoked,
                        muni-bused,
                                    form-filled,
                                                and fee-paid
                                                            my way to a vasectomy,

Which greatly upsets my grandchildlessmother,
            nicely.