The Muppet Show

My grandmother’s floor felt best when I stretched

out with my chin propped on soiled hands, Muppets

twisting, scrapping, can-canning on the tube

above me. More than others, Gonzo strummed

each thin, goofy string strung inside my chest—

that velvet tuxedo, crooked bowtie,

Fracklish nose and eyes. In the garden,

my Grandmother would rub dirt from turnips

and crouch beside yellow-flag irises

budding like the sunset. She’d race inside

at the trill of Gonzo’s ruptured trumpet

and sit beside me. Statler and Waldorf

always strummed her strings with balconisms—

adult humor. Once, Gonzo shot himself

from a cannon, into the balcony—

kid humor. I turned to her with a smile

and saw her check her pulse for the first time—

like she knew the tumor bloomed inside her.