My grandfather whose cognomen I wear

through the world I am told percolated coffee

for all of a week. He felt each grain

part of ancestral Cracow

soil to hold dearly and so he did.

We called him dziadzi, silent

figure in a stone white bed smelling of

camphor, a piece of dried bread

between the sheets. Where coffee brews now

across the years from newer grounds I sip

dark muddied flavor

of a Polish town.