September 12, 2023

my grandfather’s nickels 

On childhood trips to Los Angeles, my sister and I would wait 
for the expletives escaping from our grandfather. We’d be in the car,
stuck in bad traffic on Sepulveda, or in a long line at Robin Rose, 
or walking his tiny dogs to Fox Hills, where he’d stoop to pick up 
their indiscriminate leavings. “That’s a nickel!”we’d shout, triumphant,
because that was the deal back then. If you said a curse, you had to give 
something back. By the end of our visit, the jar on his dining room table 
was brimming with coins, and we’d reach in, reveling in the prosperity 
of all those blasphemous outbursts, knowing even then to be attentive,
knowing even then the fortune of listening.