They called him Bro’ Pops,
The folks of Crooked Tree, Belize
All day he rested on the veranda
Facing the lagoon
Watched for birds
Listened to the wind rippling the water
Was fed by the old cook
Who kept him company when she could
By day the women and young children of the village
Traced the dusty paths to visit him
By evening the older children came on horseback
He slept well    

Our PopPop, in his eighties
Took care of the mail
The cooking
The bills
My grandmother
Shuffling around the suburbs by himself
In and out of the car
To the bank
The pharmacy
The grocery
He joked of death by schlepping
Evenings on the balcony
He’d catch his breath
Scan the stars                                
But sleep eluded him