Grace of Our Fathers
My Grandfather wore the
pants in the house,
a pair with a hole in
one pocket through
which he would slide a
hand and, in a feat
of manual dexterity, extend
one gnarled index finger
up and through the
fly which he had quietly
undone while
leading grace, the rest
of us, heads bowed, hands
clasped, eyes closed in
silent reflection, save
for me, I must confess, my
prayer a plea
to Him to steady the hand
of this man
about to bless our Sabbath
meal with a
trick so amazing I could
not resist
one quick peek, his
intentions telegraphed
with a twinkle of the eye,
chair pushed back,
rising to utter a
stentorian
Amen, waggling his erect
digit at
the hungry multitude, punctuating
the benediction with a lewd salute.
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