I found my grandfather's business card
in a box in our attic. The durable
card stock was badly creased, its letters
worn and faded. He was a god in my mother's eyes
and I always felt inadequate by comparison.
The truth is often less than the legend, even if he did
only finish the third grade, could add up numbers
faster than a computer and had hundreds of employees
who loved him. He's sometimes in my dreams.
I don't know where the dead go or if it's best
to forget them. I dream many nights
of a crooked house I must wander through,
filled with rooms of people I do not know.
Gil Hoy is a Best of the Net nominated Boston poet who studied poetry at Boston University through its Evergreen program. Hoy's poetry has appeared in Ariel Chart, Right Hand Pointing, Indian Periodical, Rusty Truck, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Tipton Poetry Journal, The New Verse News, the penmen review, Chiron Review and elsewhere.