a Sunday Afternoon

i never knew my great uncle
in his youth, never knew
what he did for a living, or saw him
tie his shoes

i only knew him by his laughter
his wit, his sarcasm and twinkled eye, only knew
his aged walk and candor - only knew
him as my grandfather's
older brother

together they could fill
a room, gather an audience
no charge, no tickets
no back stage pass - lucky i thought myself as
a child able to move closer
steadily between legs, between pastel printed shirts, between
gossip and an off balance
center table, til

up i looked at him, this uncle
sitting on a tall
wooden stool, his elbow on the bar
his hat next to his beer - that
is how i know him
i could not know his childhood
my grandfather's brother - together

in suits and ties, in hats
with brims, in vests with memory lined pockets
tied shoes -
calling out tales, first one
then the other, proud and pronounced

they sat
bar-stool to bar-stool

"You" this and "You" that
"He" this and "He" that,

a woman moved to sit down, ordered a Seven-Up
seemingly familiar in scene
as hat to hat,
as beer to beer
these old men sat
filling the room

as only laughter can
on a warm Sunday afternoon

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2011

my Great Uncle Mike ( in picture) poem of how I remember him

posted for dVerse Open link night