“Hi Grandma. It’s Anna. I dialed you all by myself.”
We chat about education (Kindergarten stinks), literature (There’s this penguin who likes to hold hands), and art (Grandma, I need more glitter glue).
Nan, I’m so glad you called. Where’s your brother? Let me say hi to him.
“No, Grandma. I hit him with a shovel and buried him in the garden.”
What? Oh, you’re being silly! Let me talk to mommy or daddy, please.
“No. They’re gone. I’m all alone.”
I don’t think so. Sweetie, let me talk to daddy now.
“No, Grandma. He’s busy pooping outside.”
I think you’re watching too many weird movies. Let me talk to mommy. NOW.
“She’s at work. Grandma, I have to go, bye.” CLICK.
Ring.
Hello?
“Hi Grandma. I called you back.”
I’m so glad. Now can I talk to your brother?
“No. He’s still buried in the garden.”
No, he’s not. Let me talk to him. PLEASE.
“Grandma, he’s mean and he won’t share the computer.”
So, he’s not buried in the garden?
“Yes, he is. Bye Grandma.” CLICK.
Ring.
“Hi Grandma. It’s my turn to call you.”
Jay! I’m so glad you’re not buried in the garden. Where’s your sister?”
“She’s a poopy-booger face. She punched me in the penis. Bye, Grandma.” CLICK.
NOTE: Poem? Prose poem? Dialogue poem? No poem at all? Whatever this piece is, it sprang from a conversation with my grandchildren shortly after they learned how to dial a phone.
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