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for Dex
Grampa’s ashes are scattered in a sand trap
somewhere on a west Texas golf course.
A plume of sand and grampa geysering—
“A geezer geyser!” he chimes in.
Sure. It’s too ridiculous. Yet
I can’t help wondering what it meant: just this.
A last gentleman-widower’s request. Maybe he wished
to bequeath his cupful of dust, and bone, a few teeth—
to the game he loved; a game which lent
to those crazy years with Alzheimer’s, “Old-timer’s,”
he’d croak, some kind of peace. Still,
in every divot, for me at least, a chromium baldness
gleams. I can’t help cringing at the thought of cletes,
and wedges, sharp as prows; and old men’s
legs like Bermuda-wearing cottage cheeses
traipsing through what’s left, his gritty end.
No redemption here but to drift
and settle in, forever, over
those rolling, green expanses
built on sand.
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