|Jan/Feb 2008 Poetry|
As a grandfather waits to meet
his grandson after six years, he
sits on the wheezing rocking chair
propped by the door, and whenever
a car passes by the window, his
smoke-wisp eyebrows curl into waves.
With eyeglasses left dangling at
the chest and hands folded over
his lap, he leans forward to meet
his watch every five minutes. As a rush
of air leaks through his lips, he
eases back into the chair, tiny transparent
fish swim from the twin pools of his eyes,
each time a little closer to the sun.