for Grandad
The barrel in the back yard brims
with rainwater all year round,
crowned with a thin film
of dead flies which you slice
with the flat of your palm,
splashing your feet and mine.
Dipping into the water
with your potato-muck hands,
you rinse your face
with winter rain
and stand and glean the dirt
from under each nail
with your dulled pocket knife.
You motion, it’s my turn,
and I laugh because I long
to do what you do,
to share in this, your ritual.
But I hear the kitchen sink
hissing out freshness,
and I leave you
to the rhythm of it,
to your little order of things.