I can see a short grey couple
Diagonally two doors over,
From our bathroom,
Invisibly joined at the hip.
Just like my late grandparents
Karl and Marie, washing dishes
Together in the kitchen window,
Their gaze could stop a clock,
And take you back in time.
I last thought of them before
The mirror folded lines in my face,
And before I noticed
The top of my hair missing
In a surveillance camera at Woolies.
I remember the model boats
Karl cut out of wood in his workshop
With several thousandth’s
Of an inch between pointer and thumb,
And my grandmothers slow pots
Percolating with pickled beef, sauerkraut
And hand rolled potato dumplings.
I wonder if they missed my teenage years?
When I dropped them during the seventies
Post the bunny and Santa show,
I wish I could reach out into the rushing rain
And touch the kitchen window.