One More Knot

He looks so pale and stiff,
Could be stone, alabaster,
For all I know.
This old worn photograph,
It doesn't tell much;
Yet he does look a bit old.
I guess, around the right age;
Ya know, the time we usually go.
I never knew him,
Yet I know he had to be,
My mother can testify
To his existence;
One more knot
On the family tree.
It seems a bit odd
That the only picture
Was his last.
Lying there in his coffin,
I can see why the Indians
Ran from the flash;
There's no life there,
Its all been washed away.
It's just to damn bad!
For I wonder,
What he would have to say.
I never knew my other grandpa.
No photograph, alive or dead.
He smoked a corncob pipe;
At least, that's what
My father said.
He often played a fiddle,
At the end of a long day:
Ya know!
I wonder,
What he played?

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