I have brought the wrong kind of sandwiches
and yes, I know this poem is supposed to bring us there
by river or through a series of ivory clouds,
my grandfather on a bench surrounded by lilies.
But I have brought a turkey sandwich
mustard, tomato slices, lettuce,
when I should have brought bologna,
thick cut, wonder bread,
wrapped in a saved paper towel.
One that has been cared for,
used to dry hands, tea spills,
something that holds memory.
The sandwich isn’t even important,
it is the paper towel that will live forever
my grandfather surrounded by new rolls —
that he would never
dream to open them.