We spilled out of our old, yellow Chevy
After sweating on the black, faux leather
Without air conditioning, just windows,
And peered into the dirty, glass storefront
That revealed some apple boxes and dust.
We wondered what wares this store had displayed
Below great-grandfather’s silent dwelling.

He was the last hold-out in Hamtramck,
Detroit’s enclave for Polish refugees
Who built cars then moved to suburbia
Before the Middle Eastern immigrants
Came to kneel for the Muslim call to prayer,
Broadcast in Hamtramck five times a day,
To replace one religion with the next.

My sisters made me go first up the stairs
To the dragon’s den that smelled of mildew,
Where the mahogany furniture crouched
In a time warp of World War I antiques
Draped with tatted doilies and Cossack hats.
Stanislaus played tuba for the Russians,
But I had seen his old Polish passport.

Mother and Grandmother joined the old ones
At the Formica table while children
Skittered into the front parlor to watch
The cuckoo clock that looked like a chalet
From the Black Forest with a boy and girl
In lederhosen and a dirndl skirt.
We waited forever for the cuckoo.

But the cuckoo couldn’t save us at last
From our obligatory pilgrimage
To the kitchen, where soup always simmered,
To stand before our old great-grandfather
Who never walked and never spoke English
To kiss his cheek and run away squealing
When he snagged us with the hook of his cane.