I Never Learned To Read
I use my Thesaurus to prop a door open.
As a desk when I write poetry outside.
To lift a two-year-old high enough to reach the table.
You should open it, my eight-year-old grandson suggests.
Why?
It might have words in it and pictures and stuff.
I show him there are no pictures.
“I never learned to read,” I tell him.
Waiting for his logical mind to click in.
He knows that I write.
He gives me a hug.
“I will teach you, Grandma.”
I cannot wait to show him how fast I can learn.
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