Talking to my grandfather at the crypt

Talking to my grandfather at the crypt

I have to crane my neck to look at you, like a heron swallowing fish.

You are there: below Isaac Tingling and just above Sam Ross.

They call it the Western Milwaukee Memorial Gardens,

but nothing is growing there.  All the leaves are brown.

I have come here, driven 453 miles, to apologize for something

I said when I was eight.  Now, I know I was wrong.  Mean.

And it’s important that the dusty long dead of you hear it:

You did look handsome in your celery green polyester suit.

Your red and blue tie.  I liked the way your hair bounced

on its crown like a kingfisher’s plume.  I was not ashamed of you.

Or the gingham dressed bunny you gave me for Easter.

I loved the Viking twang of your Wisconsin talk.

I loved shucking the pistachio nuts with you. 

Holding your red fingered hand.