burying the grandfather

the grandfather was a compost dream.
was a cigar shop with an open door. was
meat in the fridge. thumbing through
a newspaper in search of obituaries.
i keep my own little private grandfather
in a can in my bedroom. i can hardly breathe.
i have a frying pan that is waiting
for a baby. we had the perfect hole for him.
his big clock face was trying to tell us
that it was midnight. gong gong gong 
went his throat. he was screaming,
"do not bury me here where the feral cats
play cards!" there wasn't another open spot.
his clock had a moon entombed 
inside a sun. isn't that how it always goes.
inside every grandfather is a chicken egg
with a grandmother inside. ancestry has a way
of skipping a stone across a monster's face.
i never intended to keep him above
for so long. we thought he would crawl 
beneath the house himself like all the others.
a grandfather is something that does not
go quietly. is a shock color or a class ring.
peaches in their shallow graves.
still, if you put your ear to the dirt
you can hear him telling you the wrong time.
now it is five in the morning & he believes
it is time for us to become his favorite chicken coop.
the grandfather has feathers himself. has a bond fire 
always burning. i throw in an old pair of eyes.
it does not destroy what they have seen.
instead, i see everything in smoke & stars.
bones cast for hopscotch. i keep a shovel 
by my bed at night in case i need to hear
his voice. cold winter night when the ground
is already frozen. i go out. dig until my body is
nothing but a dragon. there he is. 
just a little fist full of time. he groans & asks,
"what are you looking for?" i do not know
& so i do not answer. of course i will not find it here.