Dark Party
11-27-2006, 05:08 AM
My grandfather’s World War One
Helmet
showcases my living room bookshelf,
looking brittle, and
like a toy for little boys.
Silly
to think it was once worn by a man
with hard eyes and big, busted up hands.
Hands that policed Boston for decades,
Bribes, beatings, and little old ladies with groceries.
The helmet is cold to the touch,
Rough along the ridge.
The leather strap has dried out,
like my grandfather’s skin after the cancer.
Sometimes
when I place it on my lap,
curled up like a sleeping cat,
stroking the bumpy, discolored steel,
I think about my grandfather walking
with a limp and how he
flinched as if struck,
when I excitedly showed him
my attic discovery.
Helmet
showcases my living room bookshelf,
looking brittle, and
like a toy for little boys.
Silly
to think it was once worn by a man
with hard eyes and big, busted up hands.
Hands that policed Boston for decades,
Bribes, beatings, and little old ladies with groceries.
The helmet is cold to the touch,
Rough along the ridge.
The leather strap has dried out,
like my grandfather’s skin after the cancer.
Sometimes
when I place it on my lap,
curled up like a sleeping cat,
stroking the bumpy, discolored steel,
I think about my grandfather walking
with a limp and how he
flinched as if struck,
when I excitedly showed him
my attic discovery.