Hers and Mine
I remember my mother’s mother.
Her slick, silver-bunned hair, tight
as she passed etheric
and pale,
against the dimly lit and papered wall.
Mildew seeping through,
Faintly strong.
“Oh, the Thinks you can Think”
When you scheme your own scheme.
When you do your own do.
When you bing your own bing.
Thank you, dear Seuss, for knowing us kids.
For giving us goffs, Da-Dukes, and Jibboos.
For being our friend, for making us laugh.
Thanks, Dr. Seuss, for being quite daft.
