Picky

My Grandma has an expertise
In picking things throughout her day.
She starts the morning picking flowers,
And mostly, Jasmines: Crape and Night.
Or as she calls them: Tagara
And Holy Gangashiuli.

And then she picks at broken teeth
With bark of Neem and Babool trees,
And picks her hair for errant lice,
Though not a one is ever found.
And picks her greying stack of sieves
To pick the stony grit from grain.

And then she picks her plastic throne
And picks a spot outside our gate
To bask in sun and pick up fights
With neighbour men who haven’t picked
Their cattle’s droppings from our yard.

And then she picks her plastic throne
And brings it back inside the house.
And picks the paper for the news
And picks a piece to grumble at.
And when she gets no answer from
Her busy son, his busy wife,
Their busy kids, and busy maid,
She picks the phone to pick the brain
Of Daughter Dear who has no work
Except to poke her nose about
In other people’s laundry tub.
And so my Grandma picks that nose
And gets the gooey gossip out
And so contented, picks a time
To call this Daughter Dear again.

And all this done, she picks her food
And picks a fault that isn’t there
And picks a story for the kids
Who take the bullet for their Mom
And take their Grandma somewhere else,
Who picks up on their ruse and still
Adores the adulation from
Whoever picks a moment for
A little talk, a little play,
That keeps Irrelevance away.