Poet's Choice

Dad sits too, blind, a book-on-tape

shouting through headphones,

pausing to grumble questions

when we laugh or exclaim.

"There's Grandpa," my son calls,

and there he is: hair slate black,

belly like a washboard. "That must be

Bermuda, 1950," Mom murmurs.

He's thirty-two, all movement,

slapping a polo ball,

clowning with a shotgun

as he picks off clay pigeons