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Oct 23, 2007


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


Bobbie said...

This poem really grabs me and makes me know this person. I like the last sentence which seems to speak of the old man too.

Gallery Juana said...

My husband dug up some old zipped files he had saved for me. I am finally going through all my old poetry and images.

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!

Neda said...

This is very touching. I am glad that you kept your writings ...very soulful and poetic..

Gallery Juana said...

I always enjoy reading your essays on neda, your blog.

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