My Grampa sold candy,
Stored in an ancient shed
At the end of clothes lines
That framed the cumulus.

We would sneak out together
In the early morning sun
To make sure his stock
Was fit for sale.

My daughter walks briskly.

A professional sales rep
With an air of confidence
That skipped a generation
And knows no limits.

She sells to institutions,
In some cosmic nexus
That only my heart
Can squarely measure.

Dinner came so quickly.