Grandfather needed no one, his hands clean
From the soil that provided solitude
And nourishment, his mind shaped by senses
Both common and immediate, his words
Steam-cleaned, spare and considered, his motion
Weighed by the meaning of a good day’s work.
His grandson lives in a storyboard world,
Hands filthy from markets, his mind clutching
At wisps in the wind, his phrases pasted
From memory, his motion a cold blink.
In this state, surrounded by grandchildren
As helpless as he, he damns the system
That gave them birth and builds a barbed-wire fence
To imprison the thought that he needs them.