He passed me on the street. I heard his steps weighted with years.
He must have been sixty dressed in jeans rolled at the cuffs, jacket and cap, work boots.
His hands were strong, big hands that worked everyday in the fields in the sun.
I thought of my grandfather.
We used to walk to the store down the road from my parents' house to buy fudgesicles.
He would eat his in several bites, something I could not understand.
He spoke no English and the walk from his house to ours was long.
He came everyday in summer to see us dressed in his nicest shirt, slacks, boots and hat.
He and my mom would sit for hours at the kitchen table talking in some unknown language.
He lived in a house that he had built. The house my mom grew up in.
It smelled of old walls, vinyl couches and linoleum floors.
The garage leaned to one side.
Its dark-aged wood holding on to the last minute.
November 12, 1999
His hands were strong, big hands that worked everyday in the fields in the sun.
I thought of my grandfather.
We used to walk to the store down the road from my parents' house to buy fudgesicles.
He would eat his in several bites, something I could not understand.
He spoke no English and the walk from his house to ours was long.
He came everyday in summer to see us dressed in his nicest shirt, slacks, boots and hat.
He and my mom would sit for hours at the kitchen table talking in some unknown language.
He lived in a house that he had built. The house my mom grew up in.
It smelled of old walls, vinyl couches and linoleum floors.
The garage leaned to one side.
Its dark-aged wood holding on to the last minute.
November 12, 1999
Comments
I wrote this poem while sitting outside a casino. I had taken my Mom up to the Casino in the foothills. Since I don't really enjoy gambling, I had gone outside to sit and enjoy the beautiful mountain air and surroundings.
An 70-ish man in blue jeans passed by and just spurred this poem.
Funny how we are inspired!