My grandfather served eighteen years,
and I brought him back to my house.
He remembers a blue binky
he bought me, cries because it’s lost.
And I can’t recover much that
he wants for—his favorite watch,
estranged black and dead; his best shirt,
burgundy and buried; his house,
below the ground, underneath a
bar underneath apartments; him,
who he is besides this stranger
in my house, who I have to help
by informing him the chimes he
hears are real, and the white noise here
is the fan, not a quiet fuss
or a fight someone will die from;
who I am, not three or thirteen,
but almost thrice and decaying;
the location of his social
security, ID, and birth
certificate; my grandmother,
free and glad, yet cagey, grim, gone;
his boxes of red fruit string things,
or string of thoughts, or anything.
Prince Bush is a poet attending Fisk University. He is grateful to have poems in SOFTBLOW, *82 Review, Auburn Avenue, Dirty Paws Poetry, and elsewhere.
