A small, tin-roofed shed
Perched between two rows of houses,
One-half block before the school,
A refuge for the young.
A simple wooden counter,
Candy and long pretzel sticks,
Yellow mustard and a worn paintbrush,
The objects of our attention.
Ma Brown – the spittin’ image of my grandmother,
Thin, wrinkled, gray hair pulled back,
Stays aloof from the young customers
Lest she give away the store.