I pick up this book of Robert Burns poems
As my great-grandfather picked it up a hundred years ago
I put it down in exasperation
As I guess he put it down

Promising himself
As I promise myself
To give that sentimental Scot
(getting teary-eyed over a mouse)
One more chance maybe

1912
2012

The numbers swirl
As numbers can do

And I find myself
Talking to this man I never met

At a loss for small talk I just say,
“Hey, did you know I googled your surname and my middle name
And our roots are in the Isle of Wight.”

He smirked
Then took me out to his front yard
(If they had front yards back then)
Pressed his hand in the soil
Grabbed something
Hefted it
Pulled on it
And said to me,
“They’re in Texas now.”