Seeing

Poem

Grandpa Lewis is losing
his sight. None of us knows

what he can or can’t see.
He’s not like the blind

who develop exceptionally good hearing.
He’s losing that too.

Sometimes he knows you’re there,
and sometimes he doesn’t.

Every morning he walks past our house.
I watch him from the window.

Now and then he looks over, as if
seeing for the first

or maybe last time
where his daughter lives.

Mostly he just stares straight ahead
and keeps trudging.

He knows sooner or later
he’ll get there.

—Dave Nielsen

Notes

 

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Print ISSN: 2837-0031
Online ISSN: 2837-004X