Classic Poem

Grandpa had a gambler’s poker face,
though grandma held the tattered deck of cards.
We crossed the bridge in Wheatland, and then raced
by Dunbar Slag, and two scrap metal yards.
Old Bill was sleeping near his pit-bull Pug,
but woke when he caught ear of grandpa’s voice.
They went inside, then came out with a jug
of what Old Bill called “Pennsylvania’s Choice.”
They drank it like spring water, cold and pure,
reminisced about what two old fogies
had done for cash in nineteen-twentyfour,
then grandpa smiled and said: “We’d better go.”
Before we got back home he smoked two stogies,
stinky ones, so grandma wouldn’t know.