Fifth generation, his eldest son now head of the firm,
two daughters well married, seven grandchildren,
heirs of the clan’s smart genes;
summer cabin on a lake, ski condo,
trusts in place, offshore accounts,
shaded evenings on the edges
of golf courses, championship grade,
two and a half martinis before dinner,
more friends than nights, model trains
like those of real life railroads
great-grandfathers built for cheap
on migrants’ backs;
coin and stamp collections, guns locked on racks
in rooms with aromas of Meerschaum pipes,
hand carved family crest hung above the bar
for the lords of the manor – once a boy
in shorts and sneakers mommy gently pulled
by the hand into clubhouses to model
for bridge table friends, so cute he was,
handsome still, and tanned in silver mane;
he waits for third wife seated at her dressing table
in a bedroom lavish as a penthouse suite
sipping a second getting-dressed drink;
a proud man rising on the toes of tasseled loafers,
marveling out loud on a deck above the ninth green
in purified air, “What a joy life is!”