Grandpa Gilmore Left Me a Poem

I’d heard he earned a medal somehow 

late in the Great War, capturing a squad, 

or perhaps a platoon of German troops. 

Hell, he said, through plumes of blue smoke 

rising from an end-table ashtray littered 

with unfiltered Camels. Grandpa paused. 

The Friday night fights flickered.

We listened to the Gillette jingle 

as welterweights bounced in their corners. 

Hell, I was lost in the fog,  when a shell 

burst nearby. I like t'shit'm'britches –

a bell pierced the ring-side shouts –

so I jumped in the nearest trench 

which was full of … Granpa winked 

and shot a sly smile … full of the finest 

German gentlemen, who threw up 

their hands before I could raise mine. 

His husky laugh dissolved into coughs 

and I thought I heard scattered jeers 

as weary boxers clinched on the ropes, 

pounding to the final bell. 

Grandpa came home, but not quite 

whole, his left leg locked stiff for life. 

I’m sure he could've cursed with flair, 

but deferred for his bride. Tamed 

into temperance by stomach ulcers, 

he moved through his days with a dignified limp 

and always left a room laughing. 

We shared Grandpa’s jokes at his funeral – 

that was his gift to a too-solemn world. 

He'd left me a well-creased poem, 

a cheesy paean to partisan peace 

which I read to embittered fraternity brothers 

the week after Nixon squeaked in. I mouthed 

the earnest platitudes to weary groans, 

till eyeing our tidy Republican tribe, 

I channeled my grandpa, shot a sly smile,  

and landed the final lines –  I’ll hug your elephant 

and you kiss my ass. 

Here is a link to "The View from Grandma's Kitchen"

and here's a link to the post-election poem.