E-A

I tried to write a poem about him once.
Of course, I succeeded miserably.

He was, as I composed him then,
An ordinary man. Only

Because he was a grandfather
Of mine who had died, I had tried

To consider him important.
He was important, after all,

To me. Enough. He didn't break
Any rules I've ever known of,

Or bones, like his son, my father,
Or like me. He seemed constantly

Decent, albeit with a taste
For olives, whiskey, and crackers.

He taught me how to crumble them,
Those soda crackers, into soup

Without making a mess. I have
Made many messes since, the poem

In his honor first among them.
Today I read an article

About the early dynasties
Of Egypt, which led to Bahrain

And another article
On the prehistoric wells

Of sweet water still drawn there,
Dedicated to E-A,

The "house of water," but I thought,
Abruptly, ineluctably,

Of the initials of the gardener
I grew up around, like one of his vines.