Gran's Gravy

Steam curled thick from the pot,

a cloud around her face.

Gran, stirring gravy slow, so hot,

said, 'Don't just stir for stirring's sake.'

Her glasses fogged, a knowing smile,

her arm worked, steady, round.

'You stir up trouble for a while,

and then the mess just compounds.'

I thought it was about the flour,

no lumps, a perfect sheen.

But today, I saw my own power

to make things worse, not clean.

My boss's voice, a tight, low hum,

'You made it quite a chore.'

That gravy, thick, stuck in my gum,

I know what she meant for.