My mother gave me a silver pen
with Frank’s name and birthday inscribed.
We never knew Frank but Father told us
he was a very lucky man,
richer than the silver pen that drove him
to write my father a big check on pink paper.
Frank was lucky alright.
He paid his bills on time
and he had silver mint ships and pens
to spare and everything had
his name on it. He was the proud
chief of his german tribe and I’m sure
he knew all about world wars
and how they lasted all the time.
A story must have stuck in his head, too,
sweet like too much molasses
though I never knew him, like I said,
but whenever I write with his pen
I think of his skin, his silver-
where it went.