When I was six
my grandfather, Harold, died--
though I never called him “Grandfather”
and definitely never “Harold.”
“Grampa” was a much more suitable term
for a brown cigarette smoking, Hee Haw watching,
on-raw-hamburger-and-eat-it kind of guy.
So when I heard “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,”
I tried to picture it: all the Harold angels
I loved him,
but if you'd have known Grampa
you'd have had your doubts, too.