Grandfather

Each day I see men
dri­ving their cars like
the dead. Tear­ing down the
high­way, some­times I dream
I am my grand­fa­ther
in the 2nd World War.
He sweats on Leyte
and shoots at the Nips,
as if he is his grand­fa­ther
forced into the fens
but still killing Sax­ons.
A smooth-tongued Welsh­man
who wish­es he knew
his grand­fa­ther-
exiled from Italy for know­ing
that even Rome burns.
While light­ing his pitch torch
my twice great grand­fa­ther
was think­ing of his grand­fa­ther
knap­ping stone knives
in what is now Africa.
A not-quite man whose grand­fa­ther
grins over his shoul­der
and is called Death.

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