Scrambling up onto your lap, we'd await your stories
of the Post Office dog or the undersea adventures.

You'd take us on trips
around the world and sometimes beyond.
In your huge, stiff, flowered armchair
we'd travel from the Jersey Shore to Mars
and back again.

Only you could make us believe
that film canisters contained elephants.
We tried so hard to peek in to see them,
but as soon as the lid was cracked
you'd bring them screaming and thundering out.

"There they go! Don't you see!
Into the kitchen!",
as we went on a wild goose chase searching for the elephants.
But they were gone.


"You missed them!"
So, we'd wait for the next time.

Now you--like the elephants--are gone.
But when I think that I've missed you,
I just open the pages of the books you left for me.

As I read, I'm in your armchair
at your house in Monmouth Beach.
You take me away from my living room
and I hear you tell your stories.