Hodgepodge dilly-dally. Pocket pieces

I knew my Grandfather only by the words of my Mother. She had no accent but talked of him with his touch of County Antrim

you have his legs, Joe, sure

and he was beef to the ankles

like a Droughtery Bullock

He shared his play on Atlantic City sands with cousins and in-laws, men and women. They stood Brady-stiff for the camera man and hung so on my mother's bedroom wall

what a floater he was, Joe Boy,

you'd see just his bald head,

his tummy and his toes

bobbing and corking in the swells

These few beach stones I tumble in my dark pocket, take them one by one into the light in the low slanting sun, to see and read their ghostly lines.