-a tale of two men-

My grandfather wore suspenders
In order to hold his pants up.

My father wore a belt
In order to accomplish the same mission.

My father’s trousers were steam-iron pressed.

The pants of my grandfather were soiled
With dried drops of Port he'd press in the cellar.

My father sold the stuff.

Not the Port of my grandfather,

Fermented in a cask of musty wood

Standing in a lump-walled plastered cell

Away from the dirigible-like

Furnace always threatening to blow

Three families to smithereens.

My grandfather drank the Port he made.

My father dropped his pocket sales-ledger

At the end of a long day’s tediousness
Into a small re-located ashtray on top the out-of-place
End table next to the kitchen door

At the entryway on the side of the house

Along with his car keys and a fresh, unopened

Pack of Chesterfield.

He’d need these things in the morning.

The front door received special guests of the family 

And solicitors of insurance companies, who were scooted
To the side door where the little end table sat.
My parents listened to the insurance salesmen.

“We’re betting on you living.”

Under the grapevine,
My grandfather and his friends

Would gather at the table to drink its yield.

My father drove a Buick to the ocean and back everyday
Selling booze to the bars and restaurants on the Cape.
My grandfather died from complications of diabetes.

My father would later die of nearly everything else.

                                                        Quequechan