My grandfather was always Bam to me.
An odd name---even 65 years ago---
but he loved it when I called him that
 
and showed me his skinny old face
of sun-tanned leather, with a three-day
beard and a nearly toothless smile.
 
Bam spent most days working in his shop,
wearing a greasy striped canvas apron and
a railroad engineer's cap. He beat red-hot steel
 
on his pony-size anvil, creating a clang heard
all over the block, then thrust the hot metal
into water that hissed like a steam engine. I
 
watched him work and knew if I came too
close, he would lay down his five-pound
hammer and place a gentle, dirty hand on
 
my chest or head. When I left Bam's shop, I
washed my hands with rough Lava soap that
stung like a wire brush on my ten-year-old skin.      

 
This poem first appeared in The Chiron Review (Issue 21, Spring 2020).
Used here with permission.