an old
grandpa
to talk to, some wise old coot
with tales of the war,
the great depression.
how he didn't have shoes
and had to eat
tree bark to survive.
i'd bring him
some gin
and we could sit on the porch
as he would spin
his yarns about life,
women, love, approaching
death, that sort of thing.
i'd prod him
with questions.
ask him about the scars
on his arm.
the tattoo on his leg
that says Veronica, blue
and runny.
who was that, grandpa i'd
ask, pouring him
another cocktail.
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