A 1940’s Rebel With A Worker’s Heart

For my grandfather.

You were a man at thirteen years old,

gambling your way through the streets

of Boston alone.

Fate left you with no choice but to

grow up.

You became a man with a pack of Lucky’s

resting in the pocket of your grease stained tee.

You slicked your black hair back

like you were Danny Zuko.

You were cool.

You were strong.

 

You are falling apart.

Rough skin and fragile bones

barely hold you together.

White fuzz combed over

your bare scalp.

The doctors say one more surgery

will be the fix,

but who knows when they'll finally stop saying

one

more

surgery.

 

You are so small in comparison

to the tougher, younger you.

Reviews

[Roger Turgeon]

OUCH!!!! Thanks for the reminder. I'm also reminded of a line from a Bob Dylan song about the worker who on the first day of the job had a heart attack machine strapped to his back and filled with kerosene.

[Tim]

Old age is a sad thing to have to go through. Your body refuses to react in conjunction with its former pliant self. This shows the duality of an young man in an old man's body. I hope he does well. You've written this very well.