Premiere Generation Ink.

Perhaps To Dream

"Grandpa, it's me,"
my three year old granddaughter whispers,
tapping softly on my bedroom door.
I awake slowly, imagining it is a familiar oriole
pecking his return at my window, closed against
Spring evening dampness and morning chill.
"O.K. Sweetheart," I answer, and
wonder what she expects from me,
all but ignored by her father.
After sixty years, I am, at best, frank,
at worst, entangled like morning hair
that resists simply patting into place.
A middle child, of interest to no one,
I paid close attention to both my sons.
On his last visit, my youngest son stunned
and paralyzed me with the accusation
that my continuing concern and interest
was a malevolently motivated attempt,
"To get into my head," he said.
It was as if he detected in me a noxious odor.
His distrust and dislike were palpable.
We had barely talked since there was nothing
I felt comfortable saying, and he offered only
"So, what's new?" repeated over and over.
It sounded to me like a challenging demand.
He was visiting again, and I was afraid of myself,
afraid I would disappoint his daughter as I had him.
Eventually, my granddaughter also withdrew and
returned to sleep as had I,
perhaps to dream hopefully.

Ken Smith

This poem is appearing in the Poetry Journal
Premiere Generation Ink. Volume 1 Number 2

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