As a kid
whenever I got a letter
from Flushing
I knew it was from
my grandfather.
He’d been there for years
with his shack job
Bonnie
drinking themselves
toothless.
My grandmother said
he’d been a handsome man
once
long ago
and showed me a picture.
A letter from Flushing meant
a five dollar bill
still smelling of a taproom
and a card
written by a shaky hand.
Somewhere in a box
on the top shelf of my closet
I still have one
just one:
my inheritance.
by Charlie O’Hay
Going for the Throat 