A man now, my grandson has moved in downstairs
where he wrestles with the meaning of life.
Our shadows nod to one another as he leaves to drive people to the airport or city jobs. I want to tell him things, but the guardians of predawn don’t let a whisper pass at this hour and I’m asleep again before he comes home.
I want to tell him things, but the words for them have gotten snagged in the brain’s cogs and coils.
The name, for example, for the lightness that can blow through a heart and lift it from the body, sail it round the world.
I want to tell him, too, how the Unexpected has a thing for us, how she hides among the pots and pans, in wait for our little lives to whistle by. And how nobody ever really believes they are old.
One day you and your little-old-lady sweetheart
will make jokes about your slipping disguises
over scrambled eggs and toast.
an uncollected poem; © Prartho Sereno