Blueprints

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.