Grandfather

He fancied penguins who could jump out of the water
as quickly as they dived down from the rocks.
He knew the names of herbs in Boston Common
and gathered them for spice and meal.
Wild prairie carrot, imitation anise
and raspberry leaves to soften dark expatriate's tea.
He owned a rose bush in a tiny public garden.
Not always able to bend down to pluck the weeds,
he mostly let them have their way.

Where is his lot of land? That meager square
on which he planted his wise seeds now largely
belongs to Unknown Man. His grave,
a cavity in earth to hold his ashes,
is many miles away from any place
on which he ever set his living foot...

I dream of entering that city once again
to walk the streets in which his very footprints
were wiped out clean with righteous alien hands.
A brilliant shadow, one of many such,
he side-walked many civil avenues unnoticed.
And, longing for a human wall of brick,
a pavement stone that once beheld a story,
I roam the Stygian lanscape of his late years,
and strive to single out fading silhouettes.
His phonebook is my roadmap on the journey.