The Meter Reader
My grandfather is elfin built;
his pants ride high on his thin chest,
He has big sad eyes, wisps of white hair,
a Cheshire Cat smile, the stooped back
of the Jewish scholar. When I am five
he takes me for morning walks,
we talk, he listens to me; tenderly he takes
the measure of my soul.
Our words reach up to the clouds.
He is a poor man but this is his legacy
to me. His knobby fingers clutch my small
hand as if danger lurks behind the neat houses
of our New Jersey town. This is also his legacy.
He does not speak of the Cossack who attacked
his sister, how he fled from the Czar’s army,
but a glimpse of the uniformed gas gage reader
sends the needle on his fear meter vibrating
in the highest register; his hand trembles
as we pass by.
**
Published by Muddy River Poetry Review Spring 2017
My grandfather is elfin built;
his pants ride high on his thin chest,
He has big sad eyes, wisps of white hair,
a Cheshire Cat smile, the stooped back
of the Jewish scholar. When I am five
he takes me for morning walks,
we talk, he listens to me; tenderly he takes
the measure of my soul.
Our words reach up to the clouds.
He is a poor man but this is his legacy
to me. His knobby fingers clutch my small
hand as if danger lurks behind the neat houses
of our New Jersey town. This is also his legacy.
He does not speak of the Cossack who attacked
his sister, how he fled from the Czar’s army,
but a glimpse of the uniformed gas gage reader
sends the needle on his fear meter vibrating
in the highest register; his hand trembles
as we pass by.
**
Published by Muddy River Poetry Review Spring 2017