Oscar
 
He was an alcoholic ironworker
employed at a big forge that’s now defunct,
and my grandfather on my father’s side,
though he was cut off before I was born       
 
due to some drama in an old farmhouse
full of cold-blooded rock-ribbed Methodists
that nobody had much to say about.
I guess they feared his evil influence,
 
but though I grew up in a bone-dry house
and spent all kinds of time in Sunday school
I’ve since found a few taverns on my own,
so I guess he’s my soulmate, once removed,
 
and I sometimes try to picture him
when I’m drinking, sitting there with me
with a big drunken grin or sullen scowl,
and in his honor I don’t pour one out.

David Stephenson


If you have any thoughts about this poem,  David Stephenson would be pleased to hear them