A Tribute To My Grandfather

Closing my eyes, his hand in mine,
we wandered off to a future time.
Taking our seats across the room,
memories surfaced, of him and his broom.

Smiling and smoking on the back porch,
hacking and choking at the Harbor Town course.
The Great Dalmudi on top of his game,
witty in nature, but never profane.

The tighter I squeezed, the further we drifted.
As names were called his spirits were lifted.
With a quick glance he caught my eye,
and again the past came running by.

Three up, three down, I walked from the mound,
his camera and hand, eternally bound.
A twinkle in his eye, a valued sign,
saying, "you'll only need nine pitches next time."

A man and a podium set center stage,
awaiting my name, I realized that we've aged.
Thinking back, I remembered the spot,
of grandpa's famous Scottie Pippen bank shot.

Tall and gangly, with the greatest finesse,
always a fighter; full court press.
Reliable as a rebound man,
so today, I remain his biggest fan.

Back to the future, again we were tossed,
hands in my lap, fingers crossed.
Name called, I scaled the stage on a mission,
diploma in hand, like he had envisioned.

With a word and a wink I walked from the stairs.
Scanning the audience, there was one vacant chair;
ran from the auditorium and looked for the man,
who lay in his bed, with his hand in my hand.