By Dave Hardin
My Grandfather wore the pants in the house,
a pair with a hole in one pocket through
which he would slide a hand and, in a feat
of manual dexterity, extend
one gnarled index finger up and through the
fly which he had quietly undone while
leading grace, the rest of us heads bowed, hands
clasped, eyes closed in silent reflection, save
for me, I must confess, my prayer a plea
to Him to steady the hand of this man
about to bless our Sabbath meal with a
trick so amazing who could dare resist
one quick peek; his intentions telegraphed
with a twinkle of the eye, chair pushed back,
rising to utter a stentorian
Amen, waggling his erect digit at
the hungry multitude, punctuating
the benediction with a lewd salute.
Clutching at Straws 