This is a poem about a grandfather I wish I’d taken the time as a child to ask more questions.
We met in the trenches
Of the Somme of your memory;
I loved your shrapnel voice, and
Your disinterest in my battles of
Plastic infantry upon the carpet
Of childhood.
Now you walk the corridors of
My own memories, all braces,
Sunday carving, and the garden roller
Of a soldier who once escaped the Germans.
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