I imagine Papa Al
in the stories he tells
walking to school
(uphill both ways)
He told me swamp stories about his daddy
and granddaddy swimming with red-eyed gators,
silly stories about a man who with one shot
brought home half the forest for supper
There is a story about the creek, he says,
“I rode in the wagon, pulled by my older brother, William
we ventured down the road and to the small creek
We were in Utopia when we were down by the creek by ourselves.”
In my mind,
I hear him singing by that creek
“Way down yonder in the middle of the branch
The old sow fiddled and the little pigs danced”
In my mind, I am a child playing with my grandfather
The faint smell of pipe tobacco in the air
I am sitting on the soft brown carpet
By his chair
My airplane spins and dives
Behind the bookshelf
But he can do this perfectly
His fingers fold the paper
Perfectly in half
Folding the ends toward the center
And with a penny on the nose
The airplane is complete
And perfect
And he had wanted to be a pilot
And this time the draft board
Says his vision is perfect
And at the end we are folded inward
Toward our center
Fly home grandfather
