I’m back in my hometown, walking up
Bridge Street past the St. Regis
paper mill where my Grandpa Smith punched
the clock until he retired. It’s been
too long since I’ve visited my grand-
parents — weeks, even months.
I think of them in their small house
across the alley from the park,
in pine and cedar shade where those
two old people live in the gathering
silence of the end. My grand-

mother with her social hunger,
my grandfather with his Milwaukee
Journal and cigar…What if they are
to think I don’t love them?
The pain hits like an axe-blow.
I resolve to go knock on their door
immediately. Some weight swings to,
re-balances heaven and earth.
I can’t tell whether I’m awake
or still asleep when I realize
they’ve been dead for decades.

Dear grandmother and grandfather,
forgive my complaining when your
son, my father, sent me over
to mow your lawn, rake
your leaves, shovel your sidewalk!
I couldn’t imagine all three
of you gone. I am better for living,
though not in time to give you
the reverence which was your due
and which I kept hidden
from myself in my heart.