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Meghan E. Stacy

Pops

I remember a tougher man with a weathered face;
Poppy looks like Clint Eastwood, I used to say.
But he was only a man. His temper was legendary;
the distorted tales of his children married innocuous coffee
tables to massive television consoles.
So when the M & M's dispersed lawlessly on my Granny's
matted carpet, rolling away from the thunderous voice
demanding that you kids stop fighting over the damn candy,
I simply dropped to the floor,
and lifted the edge of my nightgown
to catch up the discarded chocolates.

But, sometime, the tough man disappeared.
My Poppy's face weathers still;
his bristly whiskers are harsh on my face
when he kisses my cheek hello,
abashed but for his delight.
He tells me about his trips
to Spain and Turkey with my Granny,
when he can slip a word in,
and he is satisfied with a sweatsuit,
four altogether, in different shades of faded blue.

And he flushes pink in spots scattered across
two craggy, weary cheeks when they laugh about the candy.
He wishes a softer, milder man had admonished
the children; I offer him my handful of M & M's.