9/30: A MAN IN BLACK EATS A PINK CONCHA
For My Grandpa Fred on his 84th birthday
It’s your birthday, today, Grandpa.
84 years alive.
I’m 33 years here, now.
You love God, your family, and Johnny Cash,
the Man in Black.
I’m rocking black boots and pants just for you.
This morning, I eat a pink concha,
the same kind you’d buy on those mornings
I woke up early enough to eat before my brothers beat me to it.
As a boy, I learned if you put a sea shell to your ear,
you can hear the ocean waves.
I take the pink concha and hear the
ocean of time you had to travel through
to be here, now, celebrating your birthday.
Did grandma make you breakfast?
Did you stay out trouble?
I hear your voice call her Guerra, or your supervisor
I married my own Guerra too, a beautiful Mexican woman
who supervises me too. You told me a story once,
the last Easter before I would become a father myself,
about a boy who gave
you an orange when you had nothing to eat
on the coldest winter day of your life,
You were just a Mexican boy
with hunger in your bones—
and how many times have you fed me?
How many times have I had a plate of food
you worked to buy?
The love you built into our lives
became a blueprint I follow to this day.
My son, your great grandson, stands in front of you,
mesmerized and full of laughter, clapping his hands,
running through the house you built when I was a boy.
When I was boy, you’d ask me,
who’s grandpa’s little boy?
Now I am a father, and I ask my son,
Who’s daddy’s little boy?
Another year around the sun
Remember when you saw the solar eclipse?
I do. I watched a video Grandma recorded.
You’re standing outside, in the driveway, with glasses to see the darkness
standing on your own two feet, looking up into the sky.
A POEM A DAY 