Opa (Version #4)

Bruised

Leftover

Crumbled

Tinted

Wrinkled

Pace set to extra slow

Aging beyond

Fill him with formaldehyde

He lost his tongue,

  He lost his mind.

He lost his heart,

  He lost his wife.

Your Quaker Oats

  Your bayonet

Your bushy eyebrows

  Your lost causes

Burnt

Shot

Witnessed

Tailored

Flaking

Beats set ten more

Falling to the street

Find him one borough north

He lost his son,

  He lost his remote.

He lost his time,

  He lost himself.

Your giving grace

  Your slicing of hallah bread

Your sketching of corners

  Your newborn smile

Not yet dead

Rolled over

Pissed on

Amnesia

Loved

Time standing still

Tick Tock

When will you join her?

He lost his hope,

  He lost his mother.

He lost his dignity,

  He lost his life.

Your thumb twiddling

  Your eggs of February

Your constant prayer

  Your daily humor

Almost gone,

Just not yet –

            You are my Opa

            I feel like we’ve just met.

© 2005 David Greg Harth

05.11.07.23:36:40@296NYC