Meeting Grandpa

Carried the baggage for years,
never let it get close to an
equivalence of recognition.
Said it was no machination
of mine – truly an event of

a past no-one ever took the time
to properly explain; if there was
thus far an explanation available.
So the disreputable, shambling
tramp was my Granddaddy –

Gee, I didn’t see anyone I knew –
surely I would know my Grandad!
But I was too sorely ashamed then
to admit I didn’t even know what a
tramp looked like, didn’t know what

I was supposed to see. So I guess you
could say I was almost doubly blessed.
My apologies dear Grandpa, I’ll never
know whether you were the down
and out alcoholic raiding rubbish bins

or that anonymous bundle of rags
asleep in a bus shelter; I missed the
opportunity to see you that day when
my Mother hissed at me, mortified,
– there’s your paternal Grandpapa!
© 12 February 2008, I. D. Carswell