Grandpa Charlie

Grandpa Charlie

Charles Henry Leahy wanted his
Mission-style portico-ed fancy-swirled
trowel work 3-story house
not too far from dirt-scratch starvation
potato famine emigration
bootleg sweetened his candy & cigar biz
whiskey shipped in steamer trunks
by his cousin in kilts from the north
whiskey easier than kindness for a man with daughters
Grandpa’s house coffin tight in wrought iron balconies
arched windows to die for and his red tile roof

our mother too well-fed for her father’s brother’s uncle’s taste
lard ass and fatso spewed at her pretty, adolescent face
his liver-building scars made of sturdy
Scottish short bread and rage

she hustled at billiards with her brother’s handsome friend
a smart hand at bridge, to him she looked thin enough
a war bride, those winning shots at pool
brilliant auburn curls, Cupid’s bow smile
her psyche wasn’t blind to his aquiline nose
above Valentino lips
eyes the morning sea below clear skies

she could only acquiesce to his pedigreed desire
hooked him with her corner shot in cardigans and pearls
yet she, alas, humorless, Jack and Jim sequestered loves
closeted as nuns, a couple of beach bums for fun
she never gave them up or tendered her surrender
never whup a man at any game, she said to my surprise
we puzzled that, competitive as rams
too late for her, too late for us
she too had set her sights on a fine fine house
I wonder at my heritage of women selling out
such a cost? my buttery tastes? my fine fine house