The Chemist
Poetry
My grandfather held patents,
banal intricacies ticking inside his head.
I only knew the tickle monster:
the knuckle in the ribs, the grasp of the knee,
the struggle to pull air from the edges of elation;
and yellows: nicotined fingertips, fizzed highballs of
scotch and soda.
Yellows of sunrise and sunset, mine and his.
Sulfured pulp and ligneous page.
The word is, he’d have had
no patience for this:
A man of science does without
metaphor.
But the word is also: I can wear
a suit like him. And banal intricacies
swim in my head, too.
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