In the casket, Pappy’s big hands are unnatural.
They shouldn’t sit that way, there, braided and pretty,
on top that button-up vest. (He never once wore a vest,
not even in that old brown wedding photo where
he and Grammy don’t look happy and don’t look old
and look like they’re holding their breath, where
they’re holding hands like children practicing.)
About the author
Michael A. Griffith began writing poetry while recovering from a disability-causing injury. Mike teaches at Raritan Valley and Mercer County Community Colleges and hosts poetry workshops for the Princeton Public Library. He lives in Belle Mead, NJ.