I remember the restaurant, The one Grandpa Had brought us to – Window panes in patriotism And pancakes atop, “America,” The world revolved, “America,” And how we’d made it “Home” – So came the syrup, destiny And fervor caked powder plate.
He knew of my toil, ills, and tolls Pandered atop horizons Hindered Mao and red As we sat near dawn over coffee And something south of Conspiracy – opposite my dream And collusion to **** said Destiny, But it was still, “his America,” not mine and he’d Sleep when I wouldn’t.
So it pained me, resonant a twitch Within this small inch of Remnant family, to tell him, “We’re going back, We’re leaving tomorrow,” And, “I don’t know when I’ll be Home,” gramps, “I don’t know if I’ll ever be home,” And he’d say prior ever’d silent – “Good luck sleeping on that one, Son,” I just know he would.