Gladbags and Handrags

Gladbags and Handrags

That’s his old Grandad over there, son,

in his box, matching odd socks, too clever

by half, who, it’s whispered, laid many

a fair feathered bird in his time to rest,

his black coffin breast dispensing gifts;

cocktail wisdom to cocktail waitresses,

crushed ice in cut glass tell-tale tumblers

long, with mist-dripping condescension

forming in cool opinions on cool crystal.

Only the official version, please people:

polish it, scrub it, make him to see it,

rub harder for he liked it better that way

you know? But, see, the boy’s weeping
a man's tears as we're called to pray.

Strong, oh, true, grown tall these years,

yes, bears himself well and his Grandad’s

very own Estella, you might actually say

so; let him dream peaceful while sleeping.

Not thundered tempers, or dark drinking

moods in twisted whiskey sour thinking

above all; despair he wasn’t, could not be

there to watch it burn, called to action he

stirred and stirred, guarding thresholds

only, while saps screwed tearing up trees.

Don’t mention these yet, let him recall

warmly his kind magician, ever spellbound,

in quiet studies where both once found

holding pens, guiding hands, filling paper

with soft symbols meaning nothing much

to them, son, bringing some little hope life

was more than ever could be measured,

taxed, indexed or filed under collateral.

He buried treasure in his mother’s chest

when told. Sobbed. Swore never to wither.

And, see, that’s his old Grandad in the box

passing on quills for his Grandson’s quiver.