After hoisting a few at the Chicago
Exhibition, your great-grandfather stumbled
over the Persian runner and pressed
both fists to his spine for balance.
Back then, the name, his and yours,
still carried remnants of peat
fire and floury tablecloths.
His face and neck would have
mottled red May through September.
Then, all winter, he would cough.
It was that stone church, ashy with damp.
But nostalgia and sepia in combination
proves too weak a solvent
to launder this new citizen’s
queasiness in his own skin.
Or perhaps you see more
in his pose than just garments
of hubris and dismay.
The use any remedy.
Restore him as he never was.
In the darkroom bath,
his eyes may blink and clear,
the cheap duds dissolve like smoke
from a magnesium flash.
Prove me wrong.