Grandpa who died young kepta diary of sorts which was reallyjust a record of the weatheror how often he was obligedto have his roof repairedor when his taxes went upor the latest news of City Hallbut once, a Sunday, in the year 1925he entered a single word: woe
It shimmers uniquely on the ruled pageso small it makes us wonder and squintbut large enough in its inky powerto unsettle his young-manly scriptand throw black doubt on otherprevious entries: weather tip-topor gingko on Crescent Ave.
and even darker doubton us who seize this word woe -- eagerly, eagerly, making it ours
