GRANDFATHER'S PORCH    

What did you see grandfather,
beyond the screened porch,
past the scrawl of tobacco
from the thin paper of your lungs?

Why did you sit on the edge
of your cot for hours and hours
watching while cousins and porch 
swing squeaked and squealed?

We were not afraid of you,
just afraid to speak to you.
You never spoke to us,
not even to quiet the noise.

And when the fag burned down
to the last few smoldering curls of leaf,
yellow fingers snubbed the butt.
You put on your slippers and rose

and floated like smoke to Scotty's Tavern,
where Deutschland Uber Alles echoed
in the empty bottles and barless windows
where the captive Wehrmacht sang.

POWs never tried to escape.
There was nowhere to escape to.
No escape from the great
blizzard wracked sun blasted plains.

They finally went home to Germany's
rubble. You finally came home
to your porch, your cot, your porcelain 
bowl of Bugle Boy.

And the place was farther in your eyes,
farther away than any of us could see.
You rolled another cigarette
and smoked into the dark.


© 1995 by Richard W. Todd

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