Field Trip

When I was little, my dad took
Me and my grandpa and my aunt
To see the Queen Mary.
This ship, in the grand aspect of Titanic,
Was docked and open for visitors.

We admired the ornate first class service,
And the less impressive second class.
I have a vague memory of third class,
With bunks in tiny rooms deep
In the dark belly of the ship.

My Grandpa sailed on the Queen Mary.
With an understandable desire to be connected with finery,
I hoped he had gone in first glass grandeur.
“He started as a third class passenger,”
My aunt told me, “But he was such a good
Pianist that he was invited to sail in second class.
It was quite an honor.”

This vague memory from three decades ago
Rings false today. Why would piano playing,
Even good, somehow move him to second class?
Did a wealthy patron of the arts sponsor his berth
Because recorded music was yet hard to come by?

And why was this refugee from Nazi terror
On the Queen Mary to begin with?

Another piece of family history fades to oblivion,
Except for this vague memory that rings false.