how did your grandparents engage the world? was it art, poetry, wood? was it fishing in waters long since dried up? did they rock silently back and forth or tilt full blown, loud, brash? were they fixers, of men, of faucets? did they sweep stoops or just sit on them to watch sunsets peeking past crumbling midrise apartments? were they volunteers or conscripts? did they cook ambitious and disatrous meals with multiple courses, then leaves the dishes for the morning, or did they keep a maid to make them thick sandwiches on crusty bread? how did they address one another, do you know?

or is it lost, dust under the bed you once jumped on
dust in the basements where you were sent to play,
dust on the piano keys,
dust on your grandfather's hand when he reached for a hammer, said here
this is how you hold it
use its weight
do not test your strength on the wood
but use the nail to write your intention deep
dust gathered slow and unwilling
from the dirt waiting to be tossed
too late, too late
into the grave earth