“I saw her yesterday, again, in an antiques shop,

billowed

cotton floral dress,

dusty rusty gray and faded silver-oxide blacks,

a 20th century still-life in motion, tin type, I think,

I want to bring her here,

now, impossibly,

but,

would my America scare her?”

 

My last duty here,

ten days ago, I buried my grandfather with

his cherished tin-type, its wedged in

folded musing 

to himself.

I must not hold on longer, we need

high ground, and better food.