Uncentered, my grandfathers loiter
by Florida orange trees blurred by wind
beyond the narrow camera’s view.
As if knowing they would not see
the new decade’s finish, neither smiles.
No pictures record the rest of the day,
but I can guess what came next:
One drove home to his photography
and pacifism, traveling toward the day
he was attacked and killed
by his weak but kindly heart.
The other walked back into his watch shop
to work on gears and motors,
not seeing through his jeweler’s glass
the night he would fall asleep
and slip into silence like a clock
someone forgot to wind.
2012 Concho River Review