Beneath the Broad Banality of Heaven
a far-bird creaks beneath a broad banality
of heaven my grandfather sits alone in the back
seat wrapped in multiple layers, unshaven
with a bucket of Strohs beside him and
a bucket for his catch (the front seats long ago removed
it makes a cozy room kept warm by hot coals
in a cast-iron kettle) the day’s light silhouettes his hat
ears muffed tight with mommy's hose
and should he turn to contemplate the shore
his Durante schnoz he lightly grips the twine
(keen to when the tug will tease though his mind is still
as a mind at ease) a twine dropped straight down a hole
in the floor (he cut it out one sunny Monday afternoon
long before the snow) and into another
darker one he augured out an hour ago
through a solid foot of ice below.
smokes a cigar
and waits.
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