I remember how you stayed in the front room
While Grandma held court in her kitchen.
Queen Jeanne – your queen, regal in her bearing –
And you a loyal subject in the way you bore her.
I remember percolated coffee, and bourbon,
And those times you’d come to drink one or the other
And sit at the table, and listen to Grandma’s stories.
She was full of talk. You were full of listen.
I can picture you sitting to my left, in a smoke-filled kitchen.
I am tucked in between adults and like you, I am full of listen,
Willing myself to grow into the conversation.
You are gray and red and grave. We are silent.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Creative Writing: Grandpa's Stanzas
Here's a bit of a poem I've been working on for a few months. It may turn into prose, or it may turn into nothing. For now these are just the middle stanzas of a poem in progress.