Our Grandchildren’s Other Grandfather


His scuffed Stetsons
sit by his stirrups
and saddle in the shop.

His cowboy hat hangs
with his fringed jacket
on the rack in the hall.

Shriveled to a sliver
of himself, he lies
in the hospice bed

in the same room
in the farmhouse
where he was born.

The dead - his wife
and two sons- watch
from photographs

as friends and family
file in. He opens milky
eyes and smiles as he stares

into the wide blue pupils –
identical to his as a boy -.
of his and our infant great

granddaughter as her mother,
his and our granddaughter,
kisses his leathery cheek

and our daughter, who sees
him as a second father,
pats his gnarly hand.

Our and his other grandchildren
sponge his parched lips while
the nurse administers morphine.

When he takes his last breath
three months from his 80th birthday
the wind howls through the pasture.