Here goes the thinker, my grandmother would say
when it was his turn in Sequence,
because our impulsive decisions
earned us nothing but
the tapping of her slender fingers
on the wooden wings of the table.
Waiting for my grandfather’s strategic move
was like coaxing clouds right there below Paradise.
The cube he built me to improve my spatial reasoning
did not make a difference:
I could never recline against a fencepost the way he did, a
day’s work,
or watch the stock market, even once,
stand below the trees outside, and fix things:
a radio, a bicycle, a pair of eyeglasses.
It wasn’t more than a few weeks ago
that I stood at the foot of the bed,
and he asked me:
Are the fruit trees blooming?
Slight shake of my head, the tip of my glance on his tired
eyes,
my grandfather never hunkered down like this;
if he were here, he would tell me now,
Turn on that light, if you’re going to read.
