On the third swing he splits.

A bright array of confetti
and candies fall to the floor.

We reach down and snatch
at the pieces of my grandfather,
fingers mauling over his ruins.

We rise, compare our respective hauls.

I get a red toffee marked “religion”
and two lollipops marked “de-” and “votion”,

but I trade them
to a cousin of mine
for a large root beer swizzle stick,

one I happily munch down,
not bothering to read the small black
script running down its side.