My Father's Father

[jeffalot]

I never knew him, but he has lived
with me all my life;
an unwelcome guest
whose tones forced politeness
where should have been none.

Perhaps it is the sound
of his father's father,
or an echo of before. We cannot
now know. A vicious clang
rings down the long, weary line
to my childish ear.

Can it be all blame? I never knew
my own self, only fragmented pieces;
like a broken glass harmonica, it will never
play as once it might. And yet,
if I gather the rest
of myself and listen so carefully, still
there resounds a pure, open note.