I am steadied, kept true on my family's wobbling stories.
Daylight turned black and we fell asleep gobbling stories.
I am a tiny witness, drinking in old grooved songs
Bedded in echoes of yellowing, knobbling stories.
What keeps the lines from running right off the pages?
We are who we are: Hymn singing. Squabbling. Stories.
Grandma forgot. Grandpa remembered. Mama goes on
Whispering ragged ends of hobbling stories.
What holds us frozen, loud, rebellious? The words you bite off and I snatch.
We sort them in apronfuls, juggle them, cobbling stories.