Grandfather, His Book

When my maternal grandfather turned ninety-one,

he took my mother's Underwood and began

to type out the mad story of his life, and,

though he'd never learned to type, roared on

for thirty-some odd days, exhausting one

ream of paper after another, smiling

at the indecipherable gibberish on the page

as if he'd found a reason for his old age.

And if my mother wept, she nevertheless

bound that story together and passed it on

to anyone at the funeral who might one

day make something of it, more or less,

while grandfather lay, smiling at the pews

where all his family sat like good reviews.