all along the highway
are stillwater ponds
their hearts scooped out
in the 50s and 60s
by a nation
full of wanderlust
and longing for the moon
in the evening
when the hum has died down
the water spiders
perform Greek tragedies
and quiet arias
for the crickets nearby
grandparents
grandparents are books
that we never get to read
all the way through
we skim their passages and half chapters
in between the stops and starts of our life
trying to piece together a story
in lobbies or coffee shops -
or while waiting for the train
they are ghostwritten autobiographies
piled high in stacks
waiting for another day
when we have time to read
i have many grandparents
my father’s mother is Rose
building blocks
my nephew and i
often spend the greater part of a Saturday
playing with blocks
we build great spires and towers
bigger than him
construct miniature Stonehenges
(though he doesn't know)
and even little garages for his shoes
that we race like cars
every time though he knocks them down
sometimes with a swift kick
or a well placed karate chop
sometimes before the foundations are barely laid
but we always start again
building magical castles and palaces for my little knight
sometimes this feels like all the air has suddenly escaped
and i can't catch it back no matter what i do
and sometimes i can't even imagine where to put the next stone
but i guess i just really wanted to say
i love what i do and the people i share my days with
and what i do here and there are really the same thing