Crux
Crux is a craggy, seasoned, sunbaked fisherman from Missouri.
Never one to speed up a story, and never in any kind of hurry.
He has no grandchildren of his own, but likes my daughter Grace.
Grace is three, and loves to run her hands over bristly whiskers on his face.
I never saw this side of him before, my mother said to me, but I had.
Don’t you remember when he used to come and visit with my Dad?
They would stay up all night laughing about wild tales of the sea.
And who was feeling his bristly whiskers? That little lad was me.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
