Hope and Shit

by me

My grandfather said

You can shit in one hand

and hope in the other

and see which one fills up

faster. His hands were large

thick-fingered and broad.

One wore a wedding ring

the other age spots. One

knew by heart the wispy silk
of infant hair—children made way
for grandchildren—the other choreographed 

swinging cracked leather belts at their backsides.

In the hungry years, one picked

dandelions from the front yard—

that week's supper—the other

felled trees, dug ditches, cleared roads

for cash which both hands

fed to an envelope home.

One hand gripped all day

the steering wheels of big rigs,

buses, buicks, and at night wore 

threadbare the armrest of his favorite 

blue rocker. In the late years, 

when the quiet of home swelled like his knuckles

and his feet paced each room,

both hands rested in trouser pockets

disoriented and limp.

When he lay in the funeral home

I stared at his hands.

   

Tell me, Papa

what filled them?