All my older siblings’ names are rusting
on signs at intersections. In his eighties,
while out erecting half the town of Walpole,
Gramps still found time for chasing after Bubbles,
a floozy nine years younger than my mother.
I asked him once where Richard Circle was.
He claimed that Grandma’s nursing home expenses
had sucked dry his account. He knew I knew.
Sure, I’d fetch the donuts for his crew.
If there was any change left, Gramps grinned: Keep it.
The back seat of his Lincoln Continental
was mine for heavy dates. The flasks of Jack,
the Winstons waiting in the glove compartment —
Gramps and I, we had an understanding.