Me and Gramps met when I was
in my early twenties.

He was a stout old fucker by then.
Still had his graces,
his smirk and his ocean blues.

His fists gnarled and nose nipped.
As he informed me often;

‘The Shithouse Fighter’
cause you’d get kicked
If you fought in the bar
back then, too.”

We were out West where
all his kids were, and none
of them liked me much,
especially the two sisters.

I ended up with at some Greek spot
In New Westminster me and the
Eyeless witches and
Poor old Mick

He was so embarrassed
when they began to argue and shout.

I topped up our wine, and
we exchanged pleasantries.

Since I had just shown up
They’d assumed I was as obsessed
with his will as they seemed in
that moment to me, at least.

(“you’re the one who said he was a mooch”)

And I just smiled and poor old Skip,
I topped up our drinks again and

it felt like I was initiated
a little further into
the black stain of our family.

An Irish Newfoundlander
-Cosa Nostra.
In Greek Vancouver.

How post-modern of us.