I remember when I was little, my Papa Robert lived with us.
When it snowed, he’d wander down the road into the yellow woods.
“Go find Papa Robert,” said my father.
We’d suit up and look for him.
Sometimes, he’d take the road to the city and he’d be in the Derry coffee shop in his long johns, warming up, writing poetry.
Other times, he’d be on a side road, wandering in the undergrowth.
He lost a few toes that way.
His glasses all frosty, snow in his hair.
Today, I stand here, trying to decide.
Before my grandkids come.