at the table he said grace

it was just a sandwich
just a salad
served in a booth
we were undivided
from our thoughts
our present held our past
irresponsible for what
we were that day he looked
as young as change left on
the ground we spoke about
grandfather's birthday
same day as America's
steam engine we would ride
around the yard before
potato salad friend chicken cole slaw
root beer fiddle music
tin tones of the clanky
upright piano sour the way
that chuch chimes always
sound I thought his eyes
looked maybe twenty-five
with innocence that comes with
believing loving anything
unchecked on purpose over years