Regard the tiresome distrust with every spoonful
of beans, scrutinized by beady eyes.
"Lies." She'd cry about the family -
custard dripping helplessly,
yellowly down her jowls.
Come Christmas time, she'd eat the rinds
as casualty of uncle's phobia.
For pudding she would serve her mind,
lined with wine as she grew old.
Yet she grew old and told me
"thanks, you know"
as her house grew slowly empty.
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