“Will you talk
to Amy,
grandpa?”

Low whisperings.
Suddenly the voices turn harsh,
drill sergeants arguing,
criss-crossing, peremptory orders
under a hush.
Amy refuses!

Lucky for me, hickory nut.
Last time
you sprang at me
with a laugh,
chanting:
“Happy birthday to you.
You live in a zoo.
You look like a monkey
and you act like one too.”

Why should I remember this now
with such tenderness?

Good bye, chipmunk.
Stay in your capital.