Grand old man / by David Byrd-Marrow

I remember my grandfather in only a handful of states.

HAM radio operator. It was a way to be involved. 80's. His way underground. He never knew what a spin class was. He'd preferred I learn morse code instead of the horn. Sax(!) instead of the horn.

Military veteran. I never confirmed that he was a war vet, which is to say that I don't know if he'd killed. For that matter, I don't know if anyone of my family has or hasn't killed.

Beano. Intestinal fortitude doesn't run in my genes. It runs in my genes jeans. That was awful.

So maybe a poem:


"With this drink...take hell by storm." (2014)


longing for a groan,

searching for static

childhood bores the young.

The old watch in envy.

Wringing the lake water 

from the towel to make

rat tails. Stinging more with age.

Wanting more to sing, and

sing louder the chorus


steam and pastures.


© David Byrd-Marrow 2013