The Cure
by Ginger Andrews
Lying around all day
with some strange new deep blue
weekend funk, I'm not really asleep
when my sister calls
to say she's just hung up
from talking with Aunt Bertha
who is 89 and ill but managing
to take care of Uncle Frank
who is completely bed ridden.
Aunt Bert says
it's snowing there in Arkansas,
on Catfish Lane, and she hasn't been
able to walk out to their mailbox.
She's been suffering
from a bad case of the mullygrubs.
The cure for the mullygrubs,
she tells my sister,
is to get up and bake a cake.
If that doesn't do it, put on a red dress.
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