The first time I met her, I was four.
She grabbed at my ankles from under the bed. 
Between expectorations that stained the floor,
she croaked, Make me a house out of gingerbread.

She grabbed at my ankles from under the bed,
and quoted from volumes of censored folklore.
I built her a high-rise from gingerbread,
where I changed the light bulbs and mopped the floors.

She quoted from volumes of censored folklore, 
took calls and placed bets on thoroughbreds.
I changed the light bulbs and mopped the floors 
while surveillance cameras whirred overhead.

Took calls and placed bets on thoroughbreds,
saying, One day all of this will be yours.
Surveillance cameras whirred overhead
while plaque clogged her veins and her blood pressure soared.

Told me, One day all of this will be yours.
Her empire sagged under runaway debt.
Plaque clogged her veins, her blood pressure soared. 
She bequeathed me dust and crumbs instead.

Her empire sagged under runaway debt,
and expectorations stained the floor.
She bequeathed me dust and crumbs instead, 
though I didn’t know that when I was four.