maggid

grandpa will go to bed with those stories

in his whistling earlobes

stretched, long, squishy.

grandpa will not share the load

no matter how fiercely we beg

he will go to bed and so will the ships

their cracking wooden floorboards.

the ships and the trolleys, the coal

and the wooden crates. really there are three

only three stories he gives us

wrapped delicately, humorously in cheese cloth--

the wooden crates, the cherry tomatoes,

the stutters. the rest are under

grandpa's tongue, the edge peeking out

only when, open-mouthed in his recliner,

head tilted back, he snores.

so grandpa's snores are the farms

of East New York, a violent crash

to the depths of ocean water,

grandpa's snores are churning windmill,

a whole pizza pie across from the office,

manicured lawns, empty lots,

hat factories, angry wooden spoons,

suicidal sons, the pouches under a wife's eyelids,

gun in the dresser drawer, side of the freeway,

nachos with canned mushrooms. 

sha, shtill--

grandpa, grandpa what will you give me?

how much is in your open palm

the softness of aged fingers

and if your hand is empty

but it is still a hand, is it enough?