Grandpa Gilpin’s
Chair
I grasp the arms
of the sturdy old chair,
remember your stories of him,
how he sat there by the window
of the house in Enfield.
He would read to you
from the Springfield paper
that arrived on the train,
report the feats of Walter Johnson
and the Washington Senators.
A practiced weaver,
he interlaced stories
of the mother who taught him to
read,
the child lost in the well,
the loom in their house in Armagh.
I know him only
through your stories
and this chair
whose solid frame invites me now
to sit awhile and remember.
