I didn’t fly home
for your funeral, remembered
money you snuck me

to buy 45s and albums
I still play. Almost twenty years
since I “missed” your funeral--but

you haven’t left me,
grandfather. No box holding you
imprints my brain.

Your eyes. I see them now.

Your smile. I don’t need a photo.

Maybe a box of Crackerjack.
You gave me one every Saturday.

Visiting Uncle

Maple leaves, kids
who live at home too long. A thin

orange cosmos looks like a dummy
in a department store basement
left too long by a heating vent.
Winter, a bossy uncle who calls
from Wausau, says he’s coming—
what can we do? He sits outside

when it’s zero. We open the door,
say “C’mon in, you’ll catch pneumonia.”
He toasts us with frozen brandy. A long way
till March. We grouse and grumble,
slam silverware down on our plates,
yet sometimes            see how handsome he is,

surveying our windy yard,
strong arms sheltering a snowflake.

© Kenneth Pobo

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