Old man's
old man's
old man
mixes
one part coffee,
one part port,
in bottles marked
Sun. through Sat.
No words for
the grandkids
who split
from
the cast-iron stove
with wood
for warmth
and coal
for cooking,
up
the
skinny,
shoddy
steps
to
the cold, black
room
and six-quilt
beds
while he
sipped his
cocktail
by the
burning barrel
all night.
And what if
one of them
woke and peered
into some dark
corner
and saw
the small
red specter
of a hand-rolled
cigarette
blinking back?
My great grandfather, whom I never knew. He was from Poland and didn't know much English. He's best-known for choking to death on a pork chop. The autopsy concluded he could have easily coughed it up if he hadn't been such a prolific smoker. It didn't feel right discussing this in the poem. These are my father's recollections about him.