My Grandfather The Tailor


My grandfather the tailor was a stocky Ukrainian.
By day he worked in the sweat shops,
By evening cold chicken and tea.
A lump of sugar for him and one for me.
And then he'd say, ' I'm going to the corner.
I'm going down.'
' This is for the old man, ' my grandma would tell me,
Looking into the icebox floor.
A bottle of seltzer water, some more cold chicken.
'Who is the old man? '
Him. The one who just went down.The one she hid
The money from, pinned deep under three fruit o' the loom
My grandma and I would sit on her bed. I'd twirl her old
Umbrella and listen to the steam come up the wall.
' Grandma, why do you spit at the Gypsies and curse
At the Spanish guitar? '
The window by the fire escape is open. The sounds
Come up from the bar.
My grandfather has gone to the corner.
He hasn't gone far.

Poem by Sheila Clare Roche-Harmon

Comments about My Grandfather The Tailor

This is a fascinating portrait of a man and to a lesser extent a time. I'm quite glad I got to read this piece and thank you for posting it. Peace, L&T

5,0 out of 5
1 total ratings

Other poems of ROCHE


Go now greenly into brown
and shed the dead outerness
serenely, as maid gown,
as life body, as cicada skin.

Owen 1970

You and all are wanderers
in the night where dragons prowl
and the unbelievable beasts
of undermind rage and growl

This Death Some Will Lament

This death
some will lament
remembering brief flames,
but to you,


oh come to me
my l' il honey lips
we'll sip the wine
and in between the sips

Love Of Owen Roche

I shall write you a song, little
you have thorns but you're my kind of flower
we'll go live in an ivory tower
and I'll make up a whole song for you