He built a basement house,
But never got it finished.
Paying customers come first.
“That’s fine.” my Grandma said.
“It’s warm in winter,
Cool in summer.”
A pump was by the sink.
Fruit trees bloomed out back,
Remembering Plumb Butter.
One Sunday afternoon,
While biking toward the lake,
His fishing trip cut short.
He had the right-of way, but
God had other plans.
Nose raised, nostrils flared, I smelt my Grandpa’s pipe,
On impulse, turned my head.
“The Carpenters have gone fishing.”
I heard the pastor say.
