What are you doing
hitting marks,
reciting lines,
after cremation?
Grandfather —
you surprise me,
appearing like this.
Preceding scenes planted you
deep beneath roses,
arrested while pruning —
soily handprint on vest.
The episode passed
without laugh track
or revival —
Just
reaction,
silence,
credits,
death.
Yet, here you are.
Here you are —
corrected in fiction:
cast as a salaryman,
set and shot in Japan.
How irresponsible,
I think, and:
What an achievement.
And, patiently:
Patently,
a mere aping actor,
performing in the decades
since you drew breath.
But I’m transfixed by your parting,
creased face, herky gesture.
They fill the screen, ojiichan.
You’re with me, again.
