Whenever I teach poetry workshops I tell poets to walk and keep a little memo book in their back pocket because you never know what you may see or hear. Poet Lawrence Kessenich takes a walk and comes up with a nifty little piece.

General Grandma

I see them on the river path daily,
a wiry Chinese woman in khakis
and a bucket hat wielding a stick
with which she prods two overweight
grandsons, exhorting them to walk
faster. Both boys wear backpacks
freighted with bricks from the border
of grandma’s garden, their puffy round
faces red with exertion. When I pass by
grandma waves at me and smiles,
but then returns to the task at hand,
setting the pace for her charges,
who look as if they regret being
drafted into the army of her family.

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