European

As a child I remember,

My grandfather's solid brown boots,

The laces tied with precision,

With time alone in a hotel room,

And his straight buttoned jacket,

The rain running down it the same,

As it did our car windshield,

His face did not betray a love,

That I was told resided within,

And I love him for this,

For the care with which his feelings,

Were guarded from moth and rust,

And even riding away,

In my mother's slick black import,

I could not help but turn,

To him waiting under his umbrella,

Feeling the rain with his outstretched hand.