Being poetically misunderstood
comes with the metric.
So my poem about my
grandpop and sweet canned
peaches is thought sweet
and it is, but sticky rather than
Ripe. I meant to contrast
an unimportant grandson’s recollection
of syrup and fruit with an
unloved son’s
memory of meanness.

Mostly I meant to mourn how we are
reduced to almost nothing, a
pastiche of peaches,  93 years and all
we retain of the man
I called grandpop is an
image of sweet liquid with a
faint metallic
aftertaste.