The next poem I write will have a
wood table that my grandfather and I
sand down. That we stained in the
summer heat in his garage. That had
plates and silverware on it that are as
reflective as a glassy lake at sunrise, and
a vase with yellow tulips that were just
cut from the garden.


The next poem will have a radio sitting
on a shelf in the corner of the dining room,
right next to the windows playing “Die Gänse
und die Anten, Die war'n die Musikanten.”
Graman music that only my grandparents
and father could understand.


There will be a fireplace in the corner of
the ginger bread candle scented living room
where dried out wedges of oak flame up.
But there won’t be any chew in that poem.
I’ll take up smoking the cigar.