I can’t believe it’s been 20 years since I wrote this poem for my grandfather, who is dead now almost 30 years. But I thought it would serve well as my thoughts on Labor Day:
WINDOW WASHER
for my grandfatherNew York 1924, a man looks with fresh eyes at the city; boundless opportunity awaits. “In America, a man can be President,” he says. But he sees the throngs of the faceless, the stampede of eyes in the street and feels lost. Alien streets and strange faces — “In America, a man can be president,” he says.
He is perched precariously from the dead face of a New York high-rise. He squeegees the glass and with a dirty rag wipes it down. He stares into the window, sees his reflection — “A good job, yes?”
Grandma is home, TV on, tuned to Dragnet and Adam 12, the dour scent of cabbage boiling, a glass of tea, a cigarette — “I remember I remember,” she’d say, and tell me stories my mother said were never true.
His belt, the one he used to hang above the city, sits before me. I can see where it was splashed by ammonia and grime and where it soaked in his sweat. I remember his arms, lean and muscular, the creases at the corner of his mouth, his heavy lids.
“In America, a man can be president,” Grandpa tells me, the faint smell of Ballantine Ale on his breath. “he can be anything he wants.” I am sitting on his lap. “You go to school and learn. Learning is good.” I nod, I am only five. “You be president.” He smiles and watches the wrestlers on the tube.
Sour candy Grandma hands me, gives me paper, a pencil, and watches as I draw — cars and cats and men with guns. She sips her tea and smiles as if she’s someplace else.
His clean shaven face stares at me from the sepia tones of his wedding photo; Grandma too has half a smile. My family, one-half my gene-pool, they stare solemn, black suits and ashen eyes. . . . Years later, I find my grandmother searching lost streets looking for him. “Grandma, come home please.” She eyes me, “Harry? Harry?” “No grandma, he’s been dead a long time. Please come home.” And I guide her home and set her to bed sobbing, “Harry Harry Harry. . . . .”
South Brunswick Post, The Cranbury Press
The Blog of South Brunswick
Hank Kalet 