Waterloo

Grandpa,

I miss the songs

you sang to me

on lonely Sundays.

They weren’t gentle

lullaby’s or children’s

songs full of giggles.

They were hard luck life

sung with the authenticity

of someone honed with survival.

While little girls were singing

Itsy Bitsy Spider I mimicked you

and belted, “now he swings

where the little birdie sings.”

Grandpa, you spoiled me

when the world lined

up bullies to break my will

into a thousand tears.

You were an island

in a sea I couldn’t swim,

a place in my heart

that kept me from

breaking against the rocks.

I miss you, but when I hear Waterloo

I am taken back to your knee and

comforted by a song my childhood

teachers proclaimed inappropriate.

©Susie Clevenger 2014

Real Toads Lost Art