Grandpa Was Here
Going down Lindsay Road,
the usual speed, boxer four,
family wagon from the crowd
in Hannover, that's where they build
Vanagons, export with fuel injection.
The oldest of the tribe, he buttons now
his vinyl shirt, as if to hide his skin
there is an atmosphere of need,
and of such happiness and love
as mother has the ancient stove
in slavery, there's cookery in awe,
nightfall has come, the bats have sung
and generations will have clashed
before the rooster's call today.
It is no use, my boy, go back to sleep,
I will have thought of what you see
the same as me.